


these secrets will keep (here in the dark)

by SmilinStar



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-17 06:36:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15455493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmilinStar/pseuds/SmilinStar
Summary: MJ’s lips twitch and thank god, he can’t see her right now.Because this is not supposed to be funny. This is supposed to be terrifying.After all, it’s not every day you get kidnapped to lure out a superhero.A superhero who happens to be your best friend, your inconvenient crush, one hundred percent pure, oblivious,dumb boy, and also happens to be kidnapped along with you too.Yep.Best get settled in –it’s gonna be a long night.Or:Kidnapped and tied together, Peter and MJ play a little game of ‘Truth and Truth.’





	1. "I wanted to. So many times."

**Author's Note:**

> Am I writing a multi-chapter Spideychelle fic? Why yes I am. Also: I have the patience of a 3-year-old, so I’m posting chapter one already, and I’m hoping it’ll keep me motivated. So, if you enjoy, please do let me know :-)

))((

 

“Maybe if I lean forwards –”

“You’ll dislocate my shoulder, and I’ll kill you myself, Parker.”

“Okay …” he breathes out slowly. “Maybe not that then.”

It falls silent.

Well, apart from the constant _drip, drip, drip_ from a leaking pipe, and the creaking sound of rusted metal in the dark, and the relentless whirring of thoughts inside Peter’s head.

God, he even thinks _so loud._

“How about –”

“Nope.”

“But what -”

“Nuh uh.”

He sighs. A big, grumpy sigh of a petulant teenage boy being told his PlayStation’s being confiscated until further notice. Except, this is about a hundred times more serious. Like _life or death_ serious.

“I’m sorry,” he says for the nth-to-the-power-of-ten time.

MJ pinches the back of his hand where it’s brushing up against her own.

“Ow!”

“Say sorry one more time, and I’ll give you up, Loser.”

She can’t see him, but she can certainly feel the way his shoulders tense against hers, his fingers twitching like he’s been shocked with livewire.

“Ha!” he chuckles weakly – voice shaky and nervous, and jeez, it’s a wonder the assholes who have got them here, tied to chairs, in some danky warehouse that stinks of piss, haven’t figured it out yet. “Good one, MJ.”

“I’m not kidding, Spidey.”

_“Oh.”_

“Yep. You and Leeds are the worst secret-keepers in the history of ever, you know that right?”

A huff of laughter follows, and she can feel him nod his head against the back of her own, as he agrees. “Yep. We are. The _absolute_ worst.”

A beat passes as the revelation and their predicament sinks in.

And then:

“Hey MJ, you know I won’t let anything happen to you, don’t you?” he says quietly, and so earnestly, and all she has to do is close her eyes and she can picture his stupid face, and those ridiculous brown eyes, and _goddammit._

Of all the people she had to get tied up with, it just had to be him, didn’t it?

She swallows down the stupid, sappy feelings and keeps her voice even. “Sweet sentiment, Parker, but you know this could have all been avoided if you’d just gone full super-hero mode on that guy’s ass in the first place?”

“But then -”

Somehow, she knows exactly what he’s going to say, and cuts him off. “Newsflash: I already knew.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t know you knew, you know?”

MJ’s lips twitch and thank god, he can’t see her right now.

Because this is not supposed to be funny. This is supposed to be terrifying.

After all, it’s not every day you get kidnapped to lure out a superhero.

A superhero who happens to be your best friend, your inconvenient crush, one hundred percent pure, oblivious, _dumb boy_ , and also happens to be kidnapped along with you too.

Yep.

Best get settled in – _it’s gonna be a long night._

 

))((

 

It happens like this:

MJ ends up staying around Peter’s for dinner after working on their AP Bio project all afternoon. A) because May insisted, and she really likes May, and she’d rather paint her face with pore-clogging make-up and squeeze her feet into six-inch stilettos than disappoint May (not to say she judges anyone who would prefer that – to each their own and to whatever makes them happy) and B) MJ had been pretty damn comfy on the Parkers’ couch and hadn’t been able to make herself get up and leave before the offer was made.

Ned stays too.

And so, it’s not really a big deal. She’s had dinner around Peter’s countless times since the three of them started hanging out more during their Junior year.

No, the big deal is when Ned bails on them half-way through dinner because his Mom called and said something about his Lolo being poorly, rejecting all offers from herself and Peter to go with (“Seriously, it’s fine guys. He’s probably misplaced his Pepto-Bismol again and thinks he’s dying from heartburn.”), but eventually giving in to May and her offer of a lift (again – _kinda_ impossible saying no to that lady).

And so that leaves just her and Peter.

Alone.

And, of course, it’s not the first time.

They’ve spent _a lot_ of time together these last few months.

But it _is_ the first time since _The Incident_ – which seems to have turned, by mutual, nonverbal agreement, into one of those things they don’t talk about. Ever. Along with things like:

  1. The fact that Peter masquerades after school in a red-and-blue spandex suit and goes by the name of freaking _Spider-Man_ – he doesn’t know she knows, and he refuses to tell her;
  2. Or the fact that MJ spends a lot of her weekend volunteering at the nursing home in Jackson Heights, and she’ll incinerate anyone where they stand if they even so much as breathe a word about it to her face;
  3. Or when Peter and Ned turned up to her art show, uninvited, and part of her had been mortified, the other secretly relieved, and they really don’t talk about his reaction to seeing _that_  drawing;
  4. Or how Peter can’t sleep most nights from nightmares – she’d only ever heard Ned talk about it until she’d seen it first-hand, and MJ thinks it has something to do with his Spider-Man gig, but she can’t talk to him about it because, well, _see point 1.;_
  5. And then, of course, there’s _The Incident_ – which _yeah . . . not going there_.



So, of course, it’s just prickling awkwardness crawling under her skin as soon as the door shuts behind Ned and May, and MJ feels like she’s suffocating. Like they’ve taken all the oxygen in the house with them. _The traitors_.

She takes one look at Peter’s nervous expression, the way he runs his hand back and forth through his curls and it just bursts out of her – a firm, decisive, sudden, “Nope!” And then she’s turning on her feet, yanking the front door open and promptly walking out.

She doesn’t even look back.

Just keeps walking.

She hears him call out her name less than thirty seconds later.

“MJ! MJ wait!”

She doesn’t.

The dumb idiot catches up to her anyway, not even slightly out of breath. _Damn his super-power enhanced fitness to Titan and back._

“You forgot your bag,” he says, matching her stride and handing it over without looking at her.

“Thanks.”

He says nothing more, sticks his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, and keeps on walking.

“Are you seriously going to follow me the entire way home, creep?”

“I’m not following you. I’m _walking_ _with you._ ”

“I’m a big girl, Peter. I don’t need you to walk me home.”

He looks around, lowers his voice, and says like the dork he is: “It’s not safe.”

She scoffs. “It’s New York – it’s never safe.”

He doesn’t stop walking, and she doesn’t feel like repeating herself. So, she shrugs it off, and convinces herself she can just ignore the way he brushes against her arm every now and again, her belly erupting in tiny little butterflies as she remembers and fuck, she really needs to get a hold of herself.

Except, he doesn’t make it easy on her. Especially, when he says, stammering over his words:

“Hey, MJ . . . are we really not gonna talk about . . . you know . . .”

She doesn’t let him finish. Stops walking suddenly, and Peter’s already a metre or two away before he even notices, the rest of his words carried away into the night.

He turns to look back at her and she doesn’t know what her face is doing right at that moment to make him look at her like that.

Like someone’s dropped a hundred Lego Death Stars, he and Ned had painstakingly built, into the East River from Queensboro Bridge.

But then she sees it. The subtle change in his expression, the diversion of his attention away from her, and she would have been offended had she not known that that expression on Peter Parker usually spells trouble.

“Peter,” she calls out. “What’s wrong?”

His eyes are flickering from one direction to another, and it’s only then that she notices they’re at an intersection, and the roads are weirdly empty of cars. The only lights are from the streetlamps, and neon red and green reflecting off the tarmac from the changing traffic lights.

“MJ,” he says, taking a step forward, voice urgent and oddly commanding in a way that is _so not_ Peter Parker, “we need to go _now_.”

In hindsight, being contrary right at that moment hadn’t been the wisest thing to do, but she’s so tired of him keeping her out of the loop, of always feeling like an outsider to his and Leeds’ shenanigans, that she feels petty enough to ignore the alarm bells then, fold her arms across her chest and stare him down, instead.

“Are your special senses tingling or something, Loser? Is something super _unsafe_ about to go down, huh?”

Which _yeah._

Famous last words.

There’s a sudden squeal of rubber on tarmac that follows her tempting fate, the screech of brakes, and the bang of metal as van doors are slammed open.

It happens too fast to make sense of it, gloved hands clamp around her mouth, a big strong arm holding her in a vice lock across her chest and she can’t even kick out behind her as she’s dragged backwards.

Her eyes meet the terrified one’s of her best friend and the look on his face makes her heart stop for that one moment in time because it has to mean _something_. She thinks she can hear him yell “let go of her!” as he runs towards them, but everything sounds muffled and weird like she’s under water and _this can’t be real._

She wonders why Peter doesn’t just throw out his webs or something, but then she realises he left the house with nothing but her own rucksack and he’s too focussed on trying to get to her that he doesn’t notice the butt of the gun that whips down at the back of his head and she can’t even scream out.

She doesn’t remember much after that as everything turns black.

Her last thought being only for Peter and that damned expression on his face _._

 

))((

 

MJ doesn’t know how long they’ve been sitting here, tied to chairs, back to back in the dark. But it feels like hours.

He’d been the first to wake, clutching at her hand, calling out desperately. “MJ? MJ! Are you okay? Please be ok. Shit. Shit. Shit.”

She’d groaned awake with that, her head still fuzzy with whatever they’d used to knock her out. “Language, Parker,” she’d croaked.

She’d felt him deflate with the relief, fingers still grasping awkwardly at hers. It’d been hard to get her bearings, with it being so dark, but she could feel him at her back – a warm, somewhat comforting presence – and it had helped to calm her racing heart.

“Where are we?”

“I don’t know, but we’re in some sort of empty warehouse.”

She hadn’t needed to ask him how he could tell – heightened senses and all that.

“Are you okay?” he’d asked her again, softly, the words dripping in guilt.

“Apart from being blind, tied to a chair, my head pounding like someone’s stuck it under the wheels of a bus? _Peachy_.”

“I’m sorry,” he’d said, and that had been apology number one.

After that, the apologies continued to slip out of his mouth every half hour (at a guestimate). Over that time, they’d had numerous attempts to get themselves free, but their captors had used some kind of rope with ridiculous tensile strength (probably alien in origin) that not even Spider-Man himself could get out of, and MJ was _tired and sore as hell._

At one point they’d overheard one of the idiots talking about “flushing the son-of-a-bitch out” and “finally getting rid of this City’s biggest problem”, and they managed to put two and two together.

They were after Spider-Man.

Which is ridiculous, since they already have him, but the assholes didn’t know that.

But MJ did, and it’s that, and the endless waiting, that leads to her casual confession.

“How long have you known?” he asks her finally.

“Pretty much since the day of Washington Monument.”

“Oh. Oh wow.”

“Yeah,” she breathes out.

She can feel him shift behind her, clearly still processing. And it’s then that she makes the decision. If she’s gonna die here, then she’d rather go to her grave without the burden of her secrets weighing her down.

Doesn’t mean she has to go first, though.

Because, she knows for a fact, Peter could do with a little unloading, too.

“So,” she starts off, somehow keeping her voice even and nonchalant. “Since we’re gonna be sitting here a while with nothing better to do, how about some 'Truth and Truth', Peter?”

She pauses, and he holds his breath.

_“Were you ever gonna tell me about Spider-Man?”_

 

))((

 

 


	2. “It’s really not that big of a deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter's coming out early a) because you all are amazing, wow, thank you and b) I made good progress with chapter 3 so yay. Anyway, enjoy!

))((

The question rings in his ears.

Everything seems so much louder, here in the dark. The sound of the leaking pipe, and slow flowing water, the crackle of electricity in the walls, and the rumble of the Earth above them – he’s pretty sure they’re in some underground warehouse, possibly even under a stretch of subway and train tracks, but he can’t be sure.

MJ’s words are only a whisper – after all, it wouldn’t do to let their captors (wherever they are right now) know they’ve actually caught the right guy and not just the suspected friends of said guy – and yet it feels like her voice reverberates around the open space.

He doesn’t know how to answer her question and can only manage a stuttered reply.

“That’s not uh … not how it goes. Pretty sure it’s 'Truth or Dare'.”

“Okay then,” MJ says without missing a beat. “I dare you to get us out of these ties.”

He drops his chin to his chest and huffs out a short laugh. _Because of course she would._

He contemplates his options.

Tell the truth and embarrass himself in front of her some more _or_ tell a lie and feel MJ’s wrath because she sure as hell will see right through him – even if she can’t _actually_ see him right now.

Not exactly much of an option.

But it’s a difficult question to answer when he honestly doesn’t know.

In the end, he settles for the only truth he does.

_“I wanted to. So many times.”_

 

))((

 

(i)

 

 

The first time Peter has the urge to raise his hand and say, “It’s me! I’m Spider-Man,” is when they’re sitting in AP chemistry a week after the events at the Academic Decathlon finals in DC, and he’s trying (and failing) to get back to normal.

The buzz about the events of that weekend continues to fill the halls of Midtown Science and Tech, and the Spider-Man talk is at an all-time high. He can’t stand at his locker for two seconds, or walk out of a classroom, or enter the cafeteria without someone gushing about his heroics that day. It’s all a game of telephone, ultimately, as so-and-so heard from so-and-so and _so on_ that Spider-Man took on the authorities, a burning, exploding Washington Monument, and won.

Yeah, it’s kinda nice. Exaggerations and all.

It beats being made fun of – something he’s far more used to.

But it doesn’t really mean anything to him.

Not until he’s sitting in class, safety googles on as Ned pours unknown Substance A into a beaker, and slowly adds (equally unknown) Substance B, turning the whole concoction violet (he’s pretty sure, maybe sixty-five percent certain, it’s supposed to look like that. Maybe?), and his attention drifts when he hears someone speak up.

“Hey Michelle? You were there weren’t you? You saw Spider-Man in action, right?”

It takes a lot of willpower not to turn around in his seat.

“Yeah, I was there,” Michelle answers, bored with the conversation already from her tone.

“Was he as awesome as everyone’s saying he was?”

Peter waits for it. The mocking, sarcastic response, or maybe even a disinterested “don’t care.” But that’s not what she says.

“He’s cool,” she says like it’s nothing, and he imagines her shrugging as she does.

And that in itself is a win, by Peter’s books. _But MJ’s not done._

“We were really lucky he was there.”

And he feels the hair on the back of his neck rise, feels his skin burning almost as if she’s looking right at him. And part of him desperately wants to turn around and say, “it was me!” because even though he and Michelle aren’t best buds or anything, he’s always thought she was cool, and super awesome, and _wow._

_She thinks he’s cool too._

 

(ii)

 

 

The second time Peter feels the urge to spill the beans to MJ, it’s after the disaster that was Homecoming.

Not only had he ditched Liz, who he had _really liked_ and _couldn’t believe she’d actually agreed to go with him to the dance,_ he’d then put her father behind bars that same night and was the reason she was having to leave and move state.

It sucks.

Real bad.

And the guilt eats away at him, even though he knows, and Ned will tell him the same, he’d done the right thing.

The problem is: no one else at school knows that. He’s just become Peter Parker – the guy who keeps ditching class and his AcaDec teammates, and now also amazing, smart senior girls who are way out of his league.

And it’s one of those days, where everyone has something to say behind cupped hands, and Flash has started a new refrain of “I say Penis, you say Parker!” around the cafeteria and it’s hard to keep his usual, sunny smile on his face.

He can feel MJ – cos she’s MJ now and it suits her perfectly – staring at him from her usual corner seat. He doesn’t dare look up from his lunch tray and now cold mac and cheese.

“Ignore them,” Ned whispers in his ear and he’s grateful for his friend, but it’s MJ who ends up surprising him.

It’s about halfway through lunch when she suddenly stands up and flings green jello from her spoon like a catapult in Flash’s direction. Without warning. Without so much as a heads-up.

And _bullseye._

She hits her target.

The green, slimy, kid’s dessert slides slowly down the side of his face and a sudden, shocked hush fills the room as all eyes flicker between Flash and his assailant.

“Hey asshole!” MJ says, voice carrying clearly across the cafeteria. “Change the record, already. It’s getting old.”

She sits back down, casually picks up her jello again and takes a spoonful. “Oh and FYI, pretty sure Parker had his reasons for ditching, so give it a rest. Also. Again. Not obsessed. Just not a _giant dickhead._ ”

And then she simply picks up her book and starts reading once more.

He gapes at her, but she won’t look up.

The rest of the room starts up again in a quiet, stunned hum of whispered words, but he’s not paying attention.

Ned whacks him on the shoulder, once, twice, thrice. “Dude. Dude! That was _awesome!”_

“I know,” he breathes out, because it _kinda was_.

He feels that urge again to tell her she’s right. Because he did have his reasons. _Because he’s Spider-Man_. And he can just imagine the whole conversation in his head – the way her face would look as she squints at him, the way she would nod her head digesting the information, and then utter only the one word: _“cool,”_ before getting back to doodling in her sketchpad.

It would be _amazing_.

Of course, he does no such thing though.

But MJ does start sitting with them at lunch the next day.

And that’s pretty damn amazing too.

 

 

(iii)

 

 

The third time Peter finds himself wanting to tell her everything it’s because Aunt May plants the idea.

It doesn’t take long for the three of them to start hanging out after school, and more often than not, they’re over at his.

And this particular afternoon is a special one.

Because once in a while Spider-Man manages to pull off a save that’s worthy of coverage on the cable news channels, and today’s _that day._

A large block of apartments in the Lower East Side of Manhattan had gone up in flames earlier in the day. They think it was faulty electrics, but no foul play involved, and miraculously there had been no casualties. This was, of course, in major thanks to the emergency services, but Spider-Man had played his part too.

The video footage the news channels were especially obsessed with was the shaky cell recording of a bystander. It showed him swinging out of a top storey window, a young boy covered in soot, clinging tightly around his neck, just seconds before a fireball of an explosion blasted through the building.

Everyone’s raving about it.

It’s surreal watching it play back – because all Peter remembers is the blistering heat and fumes, and the sheer terror coursing through his veins as he’d followed the cries of the young boy trapped in his bedroom. He remembers his hysterical mother too, overcome with guilt and relief, clutching two of her other children, one only an infant, in her two arms.

It’s kind of gut-wrenching if Peter thinks about it too hard.

Yeah, it looks pretty badass watching it in technicolour on their TV screen but watching Aunt May having to visibly slow her breathing and quietly walk out of the room, puts it into perspective.

_He could have died._

Ned, though, is still in awe and barely manages not to give it all away. He slaps his arm repeatedly, muttering “holy shit, dude,” while MJ sits not two feet away curled up in her favourite armchair.

He doesn’t notice the expression on MJ’s face the rest of the evening, still in a bit of daze from the day’s events, but Aunt May does.

She brings it up after both his friends have gone home for the night.

She enters his bedroom with a light rap at his door. He’s awake, sitting up against his pillows, earphones in, holding up his phone as he replays the video for the twentieth time.

She perches herself on the edge of his bed, her head resting against the railing of the upper bunk.

“Hey,” he says softly at her expression. “I’m sorry if I scared you.”

She nods, and takes her time before saying, “I know there’s nothing I can say that can stop you from doing what you do, Peter. I understand how important it is to you. And you did something amazing today. I’m proud of you. _I am_. But that doesn’t make it any easier.”

He nods, pushing himself up to reach around and give her a bear hug from behind. He presses his chin into her shoulder, and Aunt May gives him a little smile as she clasps hold of his bare forearm and squeezes.

“Does MJ know?” she asks.

And the question startles him for a moment, a slow building panic starting to simmer as he goes over the day’s events and wondering if he gave it away at any point.

Aunt May tilts her head away and looks back at him as he gently loosens the hug and sits back.

“No,” he says. “At least I don’t think so.”

“Okay. No that’s fine. It’s just . . . Peter, I know why you want to keep MJ out of the loop. I respect that. It’s a very mature choice. But have you ever thought that maybe you’re hurting her more by not including her? MJ’s a smart one, I think she probably already suspects something’s going on with you. And if anyone could handle it, it would be her.”

Peter doesn’t really know what to say to that, so he says nothing.

Aunt May leans down and presses her lips to the crown of his head.

“Night honey. Just think about it, okay?”

Peter nods.

It takes him hours to fall asleep that night.

 

 

(iv)

 

 

After Aunt May tells him to maybe tell MJ his secret, it’s all he can think about.

He lists the pros and cons in his head.

It has nothing to do with trust. Because he trusts her with his life. He just doesn’t trust himself with hers. It’s bad enough he couldn’t prevent Ned and Aunt May from finding out, and he worries about their safety all the time. But if he can prevent someone else he cares about finding out, preventing them from potentially becoming a target, shouldn’t he take it?

A week later they relocate one of their movie nights to MJ’s place. Her parents and little sister are at home, and they’re happy for them to be there, so long as they choose an age appropriate film they can _all_ watch together.

And so that’s how they all end up sitting there, numbly watching some random Disney channel, chick-flick of a movie, and he’s bored silly. And so is MJ. Ned too. There’s no greater endorsement from him than the fact he fell asleep cradling the popcorn about ten minutes into it.

And so, Peter can be forgiven for thinking MJ’s not paying any attention and being caught off guard when she’s suddenly sitting a little more upright and pointing at the screen. “See that?” she says. “That’s so stupid. Why doesn’t he just tell her the truth right now, because I guarantee she’ll find out somehow, anyway. And then she’ll be mad, and it’ll be some contrived bullshit –”

“MJ!” Peter interrupts in a hushed, frantic whisper, looking meaningfully down at her little sister sandwiched between them, but she’s still, thankfully, happily engaged with the movie.

“BS,” MJ corrects herself mimicking his tone, “that keeps them apart. It’s all so predictable.”

His pulse thrums under his skin, because it almost feels like that little speech is solely for his benefit.

Because she doesn’t look at him once during her rant, just reaches over to grab the bowl of popcorn from Ned’s loosening grasp and sits back; but it feels a lot like that thing she does – where she’s not looking at you, _but she’s totally looking at you._

It’s almost enough for him to ask, “if I told you my secret now, would it pull _us_ apart?”

He doesn’t, of course.

But it is the fourth time he seriously considers spilling the beans to her.

And he thinks, had they been alone? He may have.

 

 

(v)

 

 

The fifth time, Peter’s actually decked out in his Spider-Man suit, and it would be so easy to pull off his mask and reveal himself.

He swears he wasn’t following her.

He’d just been patrolling in the Jackson Heights area that afternoon when he had spotted her leaving St Luke’s Nursing Home.

Okay, so he’d asked her about it once, when she bailed on a couple of their weekend hang-outs, and she’d turned around and retorted with a steely gaze, “do _you_ wanna tell me where _you_ disappear to all the time, Parker? _No?_ That’s what I thought.”

He hadn’t followed her.

Nope.

But he had seen the leaflet poking out of her folder during their Math lesson a week after that and asked her about it.

She’d shut him down instantly.

And so, he respects her privacy, and doesn’t ask again. It’s only fair she gets to keep her own secrets.

Which is why he _absolutely did not_ follow her here.

Just to make it crystal clear, it’s pure coincidence that he sees her, and he had intended to leave her be.

But then, there she is, walking out of the building, familiar bag on her shoulder, and everything about her just screams _wrong._

There’s a slight slouch to her shoulders, teeth biting down on her lower lip, and she just looks _sad_ , and something inside him snaps.

He swings down without thinking, sticking the landing right in front of her.

She startles, and steps back, hand instantly reaching into her bag.

_Yeah, smart move dumbass. Scare her why don’t you?!_

“Howdy Ma’am!” He bursts out with. At her incredulous expression, he stammers (because he has no idea why he bust out a Southern accent, when he’s supposed to be from New York!), “I mean, hi, um hello! How are you doing, Miss?”

She looks back at him, suspicious. Which, yeah, totally his bad. He’s _this close_ to facepalming in front of her.

“Is it a slow day for rescuing kittens or something?” she asks, gently removing her hand from her bag and he’s relieved to see she hasn’t brought out the pepper spray.

He shrugs. “I’ve rescued five already, and a puppy from the Hudson river. So no, average really.”

Her lips twitch, amusement flickering in her eyes, and he wants to jump up and dance because for that tiny moment, whatever was haunting her, the deep sadness dulling her eyes, disappears, and she looks more like the MJ he lov- _cares_ about.

“Are you visiting someone?” he asks.

“I guess someone who goes around calling themselves the friendly _neighbour_ hood spider-man would be nosey too. Figures.”

“I’m not nosey,” he says a little indignantly. “You just looked a little sad, ma’am.”

“As creepy as it is that you think you _know me_ , I’m fine.”

And it’s all he can do from shouting _“you do! You do know me!”_

Instead, he clears his throat and says, “I’m sure whatever it is, that’s uh, that’s going on, your friends would be happy to help.”

She narrows her eyes and steps into his space. He gulps.

“Oh and do _you_ tell your friends everything?” she asks.

“Maybe I should start.”

And he has no idea why he says that, but then MJ seems to have that effect on people.

“Maybe you should,” she says holding his gaze, before stepping away and shrugging. “Anyway, nice chat Spidey. Bye!”

And then she’s walking away.

And a small part of him thinks that maybe Aunt May had been right, maybe she’s already figured it out.

 _Nah_ , he thinks.

She would have said something already.

He knows MJ well enough now to know she’s not shy.

If she knows, _he’d know._

 

))((

 

It does strike Peter as interesting that she hadn’t asked _why_ he hadn’t told her, just _if_ he ever would have?

But it doesn’t matter, because MJ’s already asked the question, and his own words hang in the air as he waits for her to say something.

_“That’s not really an answer, Peter.”_

And to be fair to her, it’s not.

Because even though he had _wanted_ to tell her all those times, he _hadn’t._ And there’s no point in telling her about all those moments, not when they amounted to nothing.

He sighs, long and slow.

“Honestly?”

“No lie to me.”

She pauses long enough for him to just about think she’s being serious, before she scoffs, “it’s called ‘Truth and Truth’, nerd.”

“Why do you do that?” he asks, because he genuinely wants to know, and the question just leaps out without warning. “The name thing?”

“Is that your question? Cos we’re not done with mine yet.”

“No! No, it’s not my question! Hang on, wait . . . I get to ask you stuff too?”

“That’s kinda how the whole game works, dork.”

“There you go again.”

“Does it bother you?”

“Is that _your_ question?”

“Stop trying to be a smartass, Peter. There’s only room for one in this relationship, and that’s me.”

It really is kinda dorky how his heart skips a beat at the word ‘relationship.’ Of course, Peter knows, she probably means it in terms of ‘friendship’ but it’s hard not for his brain to go _there_ especially after, well, after _what happened._ And if MJ’s for real about taking it in turns with this whole game, maybe he’ll ask her about that. _Eventually._

He’s gonna have to build up to something like that, though.

And for him to even get there, he’s gonna have to answer her question first.

Truthfully.

“I don’t know if I ever would have told you,” he says finally.

She says nothing, her breathing so shallow, that had he not had his heightened senses, he wouldn’t have heard her.

His chest feels tight, because he’s already screwing this confession up, but he needs her to understand. And so, he reaches out with his fingers in the dark, brushing up against hers. She doesn’t flinch away from the touch and he takes it as a positive sign.

“For two reasons,” he continues. “One, I think I always knew, deep down, that you already knew or had some idea of what was going on. So I never thought I’d have to. And number two, even though I _wanted_ to tell you, part of me was scared to.”

“Why?”

“For the exact reason you’re stuck here now. I didn’t want there to be a target on your back. I mean, I had no choice with Ned or Aunt May. But with you. I could still protect you.”

“Kinda a bit late for that now.”

And just like that, the pressure in his chest bursts and he lets slip a small laugh, and if he closes his eyes and imagines her face, he thinks that maybe there’s a tiny smile on her lips too.

“Anyway,” she carries on, “so, I’m gonna forget that little bit about protecting me, cos that’s really lame, also maybe a little offensive – haven’t decided yet – _but_ . . . it's also kinda _sweet_ , Parker.”

“Really?” he asks, over-eager and grinning dopily into the dark. Not that MJ can see, so it’s okay.

“You heard me. I’m not saying it again.”

“Okay, okay.” And then, “is it my turn yet?”

“Yep. Hit me with your worst, loser.”

He doesn't have to think too hard about it, because it’s been bugging him for the longest time, and he really wants to know. So, no time like the present to finally ask:

_“Why don’t you want to talk about St Luke’s?”_

 

))((

 


	3. “No, MJ. No. It was . . . amazing.”

))((

If MJ had had anything on her to wager, she would have put it all on him choosing to ask her about _exactly_ that.

St Luke’s.

She knows it’s been frustrating him and has been for some months now.

Every weekend when he’s asked her to hang out, or Ned’s asked her (just to switch things up), and she’s replied with an indifferent, “sorry. Can’t. Busy.” Or sometimes when she mock-pouts (because it’s hilarious just how much it weirds the two dweebs out when she does) and says, “oh I wish I could!” instead, and then responds to their “why not?” with two middle fingers and a cheery “bye!”.

She can see it frustrate the hell out of him, each and every time, but he’s too goddamn nice to dig any deeper.

She does have to admit though, there’s a sweet sort of satisfaction with the shoe being on the other foot.

_Who has all the secrets now, Spider-Man?_

She never says that aloud, but it doesn’t mean the words aren’t there in her head when she flips him the bird and runs off just like he’s always doing.

It comes as no surprise then that he’s curious enough to bring it up now, especially since she’s given him free reign to.

_“It’s really not that big of a deal,”_ she answers him, finally.

She really doesn’t want to say any more, but there’s a reason she suggested this game in the first place. Maybe it had been for her all along – a ruse to be brave.

And so, she bites the bullet and explains.

“My Nana used to be a patient there.”

“Used to?” Peter asks, softly. So softly, and she hates it. She hates that it presses against her rough outer shell with just enough pressure to get it to crack.

“Yeah, she passed year before last.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, squeezing her hand again and she hadn’t even realised he hadn’t let her go.

She doesn’t say “thanks”. She’s always thought it kinda idiotic to says thanks to people’s platitudes for the dead and dying, but somehow from the mouth of Peter Parker, it doesn’t rankle like it usually does.

“Were you close?”

“Yeah,” she says, taking a deep, steadying breath. _“Yeah, we were . . .”_

 

))((

)(

 

MJ is three years old when her first piece of artwork is strung up to be admired.

And by strung up, she means stuck to the refrigerator with an old _Statue of Liberty_ magnet.

And by artwork, she means circles and circles of scribbles in Crayola red, and tiny little handprints of poster paint blue and yellow in the corner, turning a murky green where palms overlap.

She doesn’t remember, of course.

But her mom tells her how it was her Nana who had proudly stuck it there, and then all her drawings after that until no space was spared. And even then, when there was nowhere else for them to go, and her mom had been ready to throw some of them in the trash – “a sacrifice for her future masterpieces” her mom had assured her and her betrayed expression – her Nana had rescued them on the down low and stashed them away.

She’s seven years old when she discovers them.

She sneaks into her Nana’s bedroom while she’s dozing on the couch in the living room, and her Mom’s busy making dinner. And she doesn’t know it smells like patchouli oil and lavender, with hints of moth balls in here, but it’s a smell she’s labelled in her little head as _Nana,_ and it’s a smell she’ll think about for years to come – random whiffs in random places and a barrage of memories that hold her heart in a tight fist for long enough to be painful.

There’s a little wooden box she keeps by her bedside, and she makes a beeline straight for it. It’s filled with chocolates like from her favourite book _Matilda_ , but unlike Trunchball, her Nana likes to share them with her when her mom and dad aren’t looking, and well, _they’re not looking right now, are they?_

And MJ knows she’s being naughty as she helps herself, but she’s sure her Nana won’t be too angry. She can never be too angry at her.

And it’s then that she notices it as she kneels on the carpet, biting into yet another caramel candy – right there hiding under the bed, a floral printed box with her name on it.

And since it has her name on it, then it must be hers, _right_?

There’s no arguing with seven-year-old logic, _especially seven-year-old MJ logic_ , and so she pulls it out and tries not to cough with the plume of dust as she opens the lid.

She doesn’t recognise them as hers straightaway, but the lettering in the corners or sometimes scrawled along the top, tell her they’re hers.

Every single drawing, painting, or glittery mess she’d ever gifted her parents – her Nana had kept them all.

MJ doesn’t understand why though. Because they’re – _whisper it –_ crap.

But the sudden jiggle of the door knob and creaking of the door just then doesn’t give her time to wonder about it. She shoves the box and drawings haphazardly back under and ducks for cover.

She hears her Nana chuckle not a second later, and her thundering little heart takes a breather as she peers up from behind the bed. She’s standing there, staring her down over the top of her tortoise shell-rimmed glasses, with her hands on her hips. Her Nana’s a tall lady, just like her mom, so it’s a little scary when she towers over her like that.

“Caught red-handed, little miss.”

“Sorry Nana,” she says around a mouthful of chocolate.

“Hmmmm,” she says looking stern, and it doesn’t have much of an effect as she hobbles around the side of the bed, perches down on the edge beside her where she sits on the floor, and ruffles her unruly curls.

“You know you can always ask MJ. You shouldn’t take without asking, okay?”

She nods, before something clicks in her head.

She frowns, “but you took these without asking.”

Her Nana smiles then, wide as she chuckles again softly and shakes her head. “I’m keeping them safe for you.”

“Why?” MJ asks, genuinely confused. “They’re cr- _not very good.”_

Her Nana sighs dramatically, clutching her hand to her chest. “Nonsense! These are the best drawings I’ve seen since your great grandpop!”

“Really?”

She feels a prickling of pride, but she won’t know that’s exactly what it is until she’s much older.

“Cross my heart,” she says doing exactly that with her finger over her chest.

“You know,” she continues on, “you have art in your veins, don’t you MJ? Acrylic and oil in your blood, and charcoal and lead in place of iron.”

MJ nods, though she doesn’t really understand.

“My father and his father before that were all artists, did I ever tell you that?”

“No,” she answers, and she spends the rest of her afternoon there, sitting cross-legged on the carpet and listening as her Nana regaled her with stories of her great grandpop and his sculptures.

She never forgets.

_But her Nana starts to._

 

)(

 

She’s eleven years old when her parents first realise something is wrong.

It starts off innocuous enough.

Forgetting where she left her glasses, trouble remembering the date, confusing MJ’s name with her mother’s – it’s known to happen from time to time. But then, it starts to become more worrying.

She gets lost on the way home from the market one day and she’ll never forget the frantic worry on her mom’s face. It doesn’t dissipate until the cops knock on their door, her Nana beside them, and she brushes off their worry with a “just took a wrong turning is all. Nothing to worry about. This is all very silly.”

She doesn’t want to go to the doctor, but her parents take her anyway.

“ _Alzheimer’s?_ ” she asks, voice small as her dad sits her down and later explains.

“It means your Nana’s memory isn’t working as well as it used to.”

“But that happens to everyone as they get older, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” he nods. “But this is a little more than that.”

“Will she forget me?” Is the only question that bursts out of her after that; the only one that matters.

“Oh sweetheart,” her dad says then, pulling her to him in a tight hug. “She’ll always remember you here.” He presses his hand to her chest, and MJ understands perfectly well.

The following Saturday, MJ takes herself to her local library and pulls as many books as she can on dementia and sets about reading, trying to find all the ways she can help.

Little things like keeping clocks in all the rooms, and photos and mementos within easy reach. Playing her favourite music and asking her dad to add rails to the bathroom and improve the lighting around the house.

The problem is it’s a little more than just memory loss. Soon she stops telling her stories, and she can’t seem to manage the buttons on her blouse, and she needs help with washing, and then it becomes help with eating, getting out of bed, and her parents can’t cope any more.

They take out a loan, apply for financial aid, and somehow manage to get her into a nursing home in Jackson Heights.

MJ visits her nearly every weekend. Her parents aren’t too keen on her going that often; they think she won’t be able to handle it, think it’ll upset her too much, but MJ is as stubborn as she is smart, and so she counter-argues everything her parents throw at her until they stop fighting her on it.

Her Nana doesn’t have many lucid days any more, but it’s worth it for the hour she sits by her side and watches the smile bloom on her face as she looks at MJ’s new and old drawings on the walls.

As the years pass, the less she talks, the more she starts to sleep, and MJ finds herself wandering into the common room, where other patients sit and doze in front of the TV, and others who still can, play chess and chequers, and engage in mid-afternoon banter that makes her smile.

She talks to a few, and they talk back, spill their own stories, and there’s something about their crinkly, warm smiles that give her a sense of peace.

She’s in her freshman yeah of high school when Nana passes away.

It’s not like they hadn’t been expecting it, and they hadn’t started talking about her in the past tense months ago – not intentionally and not without being wracked with guilt – but it still hurts like a bitch when she does.

She stays away from St Luke’s – can’t bring herself to go back and take down those sketches or go sit with that same smile on her face when talking to the other residents; and she definitely can’t venture into their garden and not imagine that serene expression on her Nana’s face in her last few days.

It’s weird how it both mends and breaks her heart all over again.

It’s several months later before MJ bumps into one of the nurses at the coffee shop just a couple of blocks from school. Her name’s Jo, and MJ recognises her instantly from the warmth of her smile. She’d spent a lot of time helping to look after her Nana in her last few weeks, and she remembers her being kind.

“MJ!” she says in surprise as she notices her. And then she’s stepping forward and enveloping her in a warm hug – her bright, genuinely happy smile disappearing over her shoulder as she does. “How are you doing, sweetheart? We’re missing you over at St Luke’s; Jerry and Beatrice still talk about you – they miss you too.”

“I know, I’m sorry –”

“Oh no, honey, please don’t apologise. We all understand.” She looks around then, down at her watch. “I’ll tell you what, if you’ve got a bit of time, let me buy you a coffee and I’ll fill you in on what’s been going on.”

And MJ can’t find it in herself to say no, and so they sit, and they talk.

And somehow ten minutes turn into twenty, and it’s just as she’s leaving, her shift due to start in another fifteen minutes, that Jo says, “we still have a box of your drawings – you’re welcome to come and pick them up any -”

“Keep them,” she says interrupting. And then with a shrug as if she doesn’t care, “or throw them. Doesn’t matter.”

Jo looks back at her sadly, but MJ doesn’t falter.

“Okay, well if you change your mind. You’re always welcome MJ, I hope you know that.”

_She does._

 

)(

 

She’s not sure what makes her change her mind, but she does. Eventually.

It takes another six weeks of getting back to the grind of usual high-school drama, and a sudden decision to take the train down to Jackson Heights and trying not to overthink it. It takes another several hours of doing _just that_ outside the front doors of the building, debating whether to stay or go, before she just takes a breath _and enters._

And when she finally does, it’s like her _own_ soul can rest easy at last.

_She can feel her._

It sounds so ridiculous and super corny, she knows, but she feels her Nana standing right beside her.

Because there on the walls, framed in a row, are her sketches.

They’re of patients, both former and present, her Nana included. But it's what sits below them that clinches it.

A bronze-plated plaque in memory of her and everyone who came before.

And somehow, MJ knows she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be.

And so _, she stays._

)(

))((

 

 

“Are you _crying_ , loser?”

“No!” Peter splutters as she finishes telling him the story, and it sort of sounds like he is. “It’s just . . . I’m sorry –”

MJ groans. “What’d I say about apologising?”

“It’s not _for that_ ,” he says, his voice surprising firm, as if he’s desperate to get his point across. “It’s just, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. It’s personal and –”

“-and I could have forfeited if I’d really wanted to. Everything’s fair game, Peter. It’s fine.”

She can feel him nod. “I’m sorry you went through all of that and we couldn’t help you.”

There’s a pesky lump forming in her throat, but she swallows it down, because _fuck crying_ – she’d got all that cathartic crying shit out of her system months and months ago.

“No offence, there wasn’t really anything anyone could have done. Superhero or not. And anyway, you and I and Ned, we weren’t really friends then.”

“Yeah,” he breathes out, and it’s funny how she can feel the air around them being weighed down by his guilt. Jeez, she never realised just how much he carries around with him, and so much of it bullshit too, because _this really isn’t his fault_.

“Why was that anyway?” he asks.

“Because you two are the biggest losers.”

He huffs out a laugh and shakes his head, and she can feel the ends of his curls tickle the back of her neck.

“Right, _that’s why.”_

They fall silent again, which is fine by MJ, she’s all talked out. But apparently, Peter’s never been very good at Quiet Time.

“So, you still go there? Every weekend?”

“You already know I do, stalker.”

“Hey! I wasn’t stalking you that day, I literally just ran into you.”

“No, if I remember right, you nearly flew into me.”

“I was worried. You looked really sad.”

She shrugs. “Comes with the territory – sometimes old, ill people die.”

He doesn’t take the bait, ignores the sarcasm, and gets to the point she’s trying to avoid. Seems Peter Parker knows her a little too well. “That’s gotta be tough.”

“It can be,” she says blowing out a breath. “But there’s the bright side too; getting to listen to their stories, helping them out where I can –”

“MJ that’s so –”

“Shut up.”

“You don’t know what I was going to say.”

Oh, but she does. She knows that tone, and it’s not why she does what she does. Because she’s not some noble-hearted Samaritan who wants to be fawned over and applauded.

She does it because _she_ needs to.

It’s also why she never talks about it.

Ironically, she’s saved from having to talk about it any further by the assholes _they need saving from._

There’s the sound of a door opening somewhere above them right at that moment. It allows streaks of light to filter through, and MJ finally gets a glimpse of their prison. It’s a danky shithole of a room that her other senses had correctly imagined it to be. There are rusted pipes running around the crumbling walls, with glistening patches where trails of water (what she assumes is water) leak from the cracks in the plumbing.  Up ahead there’s a walkway, ending in metal grated stairs which lead down onto their level. It’s there that two assholes stand, whispering, and silhouetted in the light from the open doorway. She thinks they glance in their direction, but MJ can’t quite tell.

“Anything??” One of them asks.

“Not even a fuckin’ blip on the radio,” says the other.

“I thought these kids were meant to mean something to the bastard.”

“Maybe not.”

“Alright, alright, another ten minutes, then send out another message.”

“You got it, boss.”

The footsteps recede again, there’s the clang of metal against metal, as the door shuts, and they’re once again left to the darkness.

“MJ, hey,” Peter whispers from behind her. “Are you okay?”

“If by okay, you mean have these dumbass alien ties loosened any more since the last time you asked? Then, no.”

But like she said, Peter knows her, and he sees right through the bravado and understands exactly what she’s not saying.

At first, this was kinda funny, but the longer they stay here now, waiting for a rescue that’s never gonna come, the less funny it becomes.

“MJ?”

“Yeah?"

"I’ll figure out a way to get us out.”

She breathes out. “Fine, while you do that, I do believe it’s my turn to ask the next question, if you can manage to multitask?”

“I can totally multitask.”

“Seeing is believing. Right okay, here it is:

_“Tell me honestly. The drawing? You hated it, didn’t you?”_

))((

 


	4. "I meant it, Peter."

))((

Peter doesn’t even have to think, the image of the very drawing _he knows_ she’s asking about flickers in his mind, and his stomach does that ridiculous swoopy thing – just like the very first time he laid his eyes on it.

“Peter?” MJ prompts. And then, at his ongoing silence: “That bad, huh?”

There’s something in her tone that catches, as if she’s trying to shrug it off, but _can’t._ She cares. _Really_ cares what he’d thought.

_“No, MJ. No. It was . . . amazing,”_ he answers, silently willing her to believe he means it.

He feels her shift behind him, a vulnerability seeping into the one word as she asks, “really?”

“Yeah. Really. How could you think I hated it?”

“Then why did you go all weird?”

“What?”

“Like mute weird.”

“I don’t remember being weird or mute.”

“I think we’re remembering things very differently.”

_“Maybe we are.”_

))((

 

_So, Peter remembers it a little something like this:_

“Decathlon practice is cancelled,” MJ announces out of nowhere just as Peter opens up his locker door. He tries and fails not to jump, his grip loosening on his English folder enough that it slips, but his quick reflexes stop it from hitting the ground.

He peers up at MJ towering over him, and there’s nothing abnormal in her gaze. That is apart from the way her eyes keep flickering over her shoulder, like she has somewhere to be, and part of her doesn’t want to go.

He doesn’t know how he got all of that from _that_. He just did.

Before he can question her on it though, Ned is the one who’s jumping in and asking, “how come? Thought you said, and I quote: “you losers need to get in as much practice as possible otherwise we’re gonna bomb so hard, we’ll leave a moon-sized crater in the Earth.”?”

MJ cocks her head to the side and there’s a little crinkle there between her eyebrows as she asks, “did I? Jeez, what a drama queen.”

Ned looks a little flummoxed at her response, stammers out a “you did. Say it, that is,” which lacks the kind of confidence to actually hit its mark.

“Anyway, whatever. You guys can practice without me.”

“Where are you going?” Peter calls after her as she walks away.

She raises her hand for a backward wave in answer and disappears through the double doors at the end of the hall.

Ergo, giving them no answer at all.

“What do you think she’s up to?”

Peter purses his lips and shrugs. “Maybe she’s going to that place in Jackson Heights.” (Because, yeah of course he spilled the beans to Ned about running into her that day.)

“On a week night?”

“I have no idea, man. She was being weird.”

At Ned’s look: “Just, trust me, something was up.”

“I don’t think so. That looked like typical cryptic MJ to me. And anyway, when did you become an expert at ‘reading’ MJ?” Ned asks, complete with exaggerated, air quotation marks.

“I’m not, I just noticed she . . . _never mind_ ,” he stammers, pink tingeing his cheeks, but Ned doesn’t realise because he’s suddenly stopping mid-stride, before spinning to look at the noticeboard as Peter comes to a halt and has to back up a few steps to join him.

The board is usually full of try-out notices, and club membership news or deadlines, so Peter’s not sure what could possibly have caught his attention . . .

_And then he sees it, too._

“Do you think . . . ?” Ned asks pointing.

“She would have said something though, right? I mean, that’s huge!”

“Should we go?”

Peter doesn’t even hesitate, shifting his weight onto his toes and back onto his heels. Eager. Excited. One hundred percent certain. “We should _definitely_ go.”

 

)(

 

Peter debates – completely in his head – all the possible reasons MJ hadn’t told them about this.

An art show showcasing promising young talent from several schools around the state, and they’re hosting it at a swanky art gallery in Tribeca? It’s amazing and clearly MJ’s amazing if she’s been chosen to represent Midtown Science and Tech, especially considering they’re a STEM school.

Peter’s always quietly admired her rough sketches, the ones she’s always doodling in her pad, while at the same time somehow still managing to eavesdrop on entire conversations and interject her two cents with perfect timing. He knows she’s amazing. He just hadn’t realised how seriously she takes this art thing.

The flyer announcing the art show said it would be starting at 6pm, but by the time Peter manages to get down there, it’s 7.30pm. Ned texts him to say he’s on his way, and he’ll meet him inside.

And so, Peter stows his phone in the pocket of his jeans and pushes open the glass doors of the building. He follows the signs to the first floor where the event’s taking place and walks into a large open floor space. There are people milling about the displays, and he figures most of them are proud parents. There’s a table of food and drink to one side; inoffensive, nondescript music playing in the background, and bright overhead lighting that makes him feel like he’s under a spotlight everywhere he turns. There are large ceiling-to-floor windows on one side of the room, looking out over the rest of Manhattan, and since it’s dark outside, they only mirror what’s inside making the space look bigger than it actually is.

Peter pays little attention to any of this – instead scanning the room for familiar dark brown curls and the tall frame of his best friend.

He spots her easy enough.

It’s hard not to.

It’s like the harder she tries to melt into the background, the more she stands out. She’s not wearing anything fancy, maybe her blouse with the smart pants she’s chosen makes her look a little tidier than usual – like she’s made the bare minimum of effort. But it works for her, and Peter feels that weird churn-y feeling in his stomach again – something he’s been feeling more and more around her, and he knows exactly what it is.

But this isn’t like Liz Allan.

This is a whole lot more painful and hopeless, and he is adamant that it doesn’t mean anything.

It’s a phase and he’ll get over it.

_Another day, maybe._

Because, MJ looks in his direction right then.

And the multitude of expressions that flicker across her face then makes him _wonder._

He gives her a smile and a wave as he makes his way over to her.

She scowls back, and _yep. Nothing to wonder about there._

“Hey,” he grins in front of her.

“Hey, nerd,” she bats back, folding her arms across her chest. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, uh. Ned and I saw that flyer on the noticeboard, and figured this is probably what you had on –”

“And where in all of that,” MJ interrupts, narrowing her gaze, “did I invite you?”

“You didn’t,” Peter says, falling onto his heels and sucking in a breath. Maybe this had been a bad idea, but then: “We just wanted to support you. That’s what friends do.” And okay, so he sounds a little defensive now, but he doesn’t understand what the big deal is.

“Leeds is here, too?”

“He’s on his way.”

“Great.” Though she says it through gritted teeth and it sounds anything but.

“Where are your parents?”

“Been and gone.”

“Oh.”

He looks away from her, because that unrelenting gaze of hers is becoming a little too much, and so he spins on his feet and takes in the artwork around him in cursory interest. Until he stops on a sculpture in the far corner, and hang on, _wait a minute . . ._

_“Is that a wire sculpture of Iron Man?”_

He knows his voice comes out a little high-pitched and incredulous, but no seriously, _what?_

MJ nods behind him. “That is. Yeah.”

“Huh.”

“The theme’s ‘Heroes and Villains.’”

“ _Oh._ Oh right.”

And then he spots the other drawings and collages of some of the other Avengers, and it kinda stings a little not to see even a single glimpse of Spider-Man.

“Yeah, some people took it quite literally. Others? Not so much.”

He spots one that fits the latter category perfectly. It’s hard to miss it. A large canvas of nothing but black acrylic paint with drips of blood-red, and okay. Wow. _That’s dark_.

Peter knows next to nothing about art, so he has no idea if it’s supposed to be any good, but given the way one bespectacled, grey-haired man stares at it, he thinks it must resonate somehow.

He turns back to look at MJ to find she’s already staring right back. She doesn’t flinch away as their gazes collide, and Peter feels his cheeks starting to burn.

“So,” he clears his throat, looking away. “This is your stuff, huh? Um congrats, they’re . . . _amazing._ ”

The last word comes out in a hushed whisper as he finally turns to take in her drawings.

And drawings are exactly what they are. Some charcoal, others in pen, and . . .

“ _Holy shit_ , MJ. I mean, seriously, look at these. These are . . . _wow._ ”

They’re all pretty lifelike and detailed, and he recognises the subject in one of them straightaway.

There’s a drawing of Delmar’s Deli-Grocery, mid-rebuild, and it brings a smile to Peter’s face because he understands her instantly.

The little people.

_The real heroes._

There’s another sketch next to that one of an old man, reading a broadsheet on a park bench, a little girl sitting right beside him reading her comic. They have the exact same expression, and there’s a story in that picture, and he realises that’s the beauty of it – it’s whatever you want it to be.

There’s another drawing of a woman holding up a protest sign, a single face in the middle of hundreds, and she looks angry and fierce, and reminds him so much of MJ herself.

It’s stunning.

Beside that there’s one of an old lady in a wheelchair, looking up at the sky with a serene smile on her face, and there’s something so sad and beautiful about it, he feels it like a heavy press against his own heart.

But it’s the last one.

Her last piece that squeezes around his heart and makes it shudder to a stop altogether.

It’s a drawing of _him_.

_And Uncle Ben._

And now he gets it. Why she hadn’t told them about this. Why she hadn’t wanted them to come.

He recognises the picture because it’s of a photo he’s looked at hundreds of times before.

Uncle Ben smiling directly into the camera as twelve-year-old Peter perches his little chin on his shoulder, too-short arms trying to come around his broad shoulders and his beaming smile getting into the frame.

He blinks and blinks again.

“Peter?” MJ asks, her voice softer than he’s ever heard it. And then she’s rambling, and he can’t even process it. “I spoke to May, asked if I could borrow the photo, just for reference. I really liked this one especially. I’m not sure why. And May said it wouldn’t be an issue, and I’m sorry, maybe I should have asked you first, but –”

“Oh my god! These are so good. SO. GOOD. WOW!” Ned’s voice is loud enough to carry through the room and the chatter and several heads turn in interest in her direction. Her drawings up until now hadn’t caught a lot of attention. Not as showy as the sculptures or the painted works, they take time and effort to appreciate the detail and the heart.

So much heart, and Peter feels like his is gonna burst.

Like boom and splat, all over the room.

_How’s that for abstract art?_

Thankfully, his old buddy Ned Leeds saves him from haemorrhaging with his perfectly timed arrival.

He grabs MJ by the arm and starts pointing at all the pictures and gushing, and soon other people are wandering over, pulling her attention and engaging her in discussion about her artwork.

He takes a step back.

And another into the crowd.

He doesn’t spot MJ glance worriedly in his direction as he takes two steps at a time down the stairs, and then out into the cold night air. Once outside, Peter stands there against the brick wall of the building, taking in a deep gulp of much-needed air and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes.

They come away wet.

 

))((

 

_“Exactly!”_ MJ bursts out back in the here and now. “You literally legged it out of there as fast as you could!”

“No,” Peter shakes his head, “I just left for like _a minute_ so other people could see your work. There wasn’t room for all of us to be standing there. And I’d already seen everything and –”

It’s partly true; he doesn’t tell her that last bit – about standing outside in the cold and needing a minute to breathe, and the tears that fell because there’s still, even after all this time, a lot of guilt when it comes to Uncle Ben and how he couldn’t save him.

_He’s no hero._

“You ran away.”

“No. I did not run away.”

“Fine. You just never said another word all night.”

“That’s not true.”

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

“I said plenty.”

“ _“Hey guys, I think I’m gonna head home now. I’m pretty beat.”_ doesn’t count.” MJ says then, mimicking him not entirely inaccurately.

“I didn’t . . . _I did say that_ , but . . .”

“Alright. Fine,” MJ says. “Here’s what _actually_ happened . . .”

 

))((

 

_According to MJ it happens more like this:_

 

So, it sucks a little being ignored.

She normally prefers it. In her day-to-day, she’d rather not be confronted with inane talk with the surplus ignoramuses around Midtown Science and Tech. And okay she doesn’t normally care what anyone thinks about what she says or does. And hey, look, she knows her work is pretty damn awesome, but sometimes even Michelle Jones needs someone to give her the thumbs up and say, “good job!”

Her parents don’t count.

She loves them and they love her, and they always love anything and everything she does. She’s not gonna complain about having supportive parents – she’s not an asshole. (Most of the time.)

But it would be nice for someone to come up and say, “hey, you really nailed the perspective on this, or the shading really adds to the depth and oh wow, this makes me feel . . . _any kinda way_ ” _–_ she doesn’t care what.

That’s what art is supposed to do, after all.

Make you feel.

There’s one person she knows she would have got a reaction from.

And a small part of her regrets not inviting him.

But then she thinks about those dumb brown eyes – dumb brown eyes she’s got down perfect in her memory, she hadn’t even needed a source of reference for her sketch, not really – and she thinks _nope. Right choice._

But then, somehow, halfway through the event, _there he is._

As if the mere thought of him summoned him here.

He stands there with his hands in his pockets, like the loser he is, at the front of the room, eyes scanning _for her._

_Of course he is._

She’s not sure how he figured it out – she doesn’t think his Spidey senses include mind-reading, or he would have figured her out already, but she’s not exactly gonna ask him either. The doofus still hasn’t cottoned on to the fact _she knows._

She waits for him to spot her and he does, and then he’s grinning at her with everything from his mouth to his eyes and even the little dorky wave in her direction.

“Hey!”

“Hey, nerd. What are you doing here?” she just flat out asks him.

He rambles his answer, and okay maybe it’s a little rude but her anxiety is peaking, and she interrupts to remind him that she hadn’t invited him.

“We just wanted to support you. That’s what friends do.”

And ah shit. He manages to look hurt and earnest all at the same time and she is in so much trouble. _Peter Parker and his damn face._

And so, she pushes it aside and asks about Leeds, and he in turn asks about her parents, and his expression when he notices the Iron Man sculpture is priceless. It’s funny how she knows he’s scanning the room for a Spider-Man piece after that, because that crestfallen expression is a dead giveaway.

Ironic then, how he’s standing right in front of one, and hasn’t even noticed yet.

The anxiety thrums under her skin as he turns back in her direction, away from looking at the Nightmare painting – no, that’s _exactly_ what it’s called, she even asked the artist – and starts to look at hers.

The soft smile on his face as he takes them in one by one digs it’s claws a little deeper into her heart, but it’s only when he gets to _that_ particular drawing does she find herself holding her breath.

And fuck.

It’s like he goes catatonic. Blinking like mad in front of her.

Brilliant.

_She fried Peter Parker’s brain._

“Peter?” she calls out tentatively. And then she’s rambling, trying to explain what made her draw this particular photo. She’d known it was a bad idea, but she couldn’t _not._

Of course, Ned decides to show up at that moment. She loves him, she does, but couldn’t he have waited one whole minute?

And as people, _finally_ , start coming around to look at her work, and she’s pulled unwillingly into conversation about mediums and perspectives (which seriously, where were these assholes an hour ago?), she turns to see the back of Peter Parker running away.

She doesn't see him for a long while after that.

And it’s only as the show starts to wind down an hour later, and people start to leave that Ned wanders back over to her from fawning over the Iron Man sculpture and asks, “have you seen Peter?”

MJ shrugs, and looks away, and tries not to give away the fact she feels like she’s been sucker-punched by Peter’s earlier non-reaction and disappearance.

She sets about carefully taking down her drawings and slipping them into her portfolio.

“Hey guys,” a familiar voice chirps up then, and he’s panting like he’s been running, and MJ wouldn’t be surprised if he had disappeared and circled the neighbourhood a few times, stopped a mugging, helped a little old lady cross the road, before coming back. “I think I’m gonna head home now. I’m pretty beat.”

MJ doesn’t turn around.

“Oh I think it’s finished anyway,” Ned says helpfully oblivious. “Right MJ?”

“Oh,” Peter says. “Do you uh . . . need a hand?”

“Nope.”

“Oh ok, we’ll just wait for you here, then.”

And god bless Ned for standing there and rambling about woobified villains and how much that trope sucks for a good ten minutes as she wraps up.

The walk home is equally as painfully awkward, and Peter says next to nothing.

It’s only when they stop in front of her house, and Ned tells her again that her pieces are amazing that Peter finally looks her in the eyes and agrees.

_“They are.”_

 

))((

 

“See!” Peter exclaims, and she feels the chair almost tilt backwards with his enthusiasm. “I told you they were amazing.”

“That’s not what I meant!” she says through gritted teeth. And then curse her and curse him. “You just left and came back and tried to pretend that that stupid drawing didn’t exist.”

He falls silent. And all she can hear is the deep shuddering breath he takes in and out.

“It wasn’t a stupid drawing,” he says then carefully. “It just caught me by surprise.”

And she can feel his head droop forwards before leaning back firmly into the back of hers as if he’s trying to tell her something important through the force of touch.

“It was beautiful, MJ, but it was . . . _a lot._ ”

“What do you mean?”

“I uh . . . what happened to Uncle Ben . . .”

And _oh_ , she thinks. _Now who’s oblivious?_

“Shit,” she mutters under her breath. “I didn’t think.”

“Hey, it’s okay. You didn’t know the whole story and I couldn’t tell you, because you know? The whole _Spider-Man_ thing. But, um, what happened to him . . . it still –”

“It’s okay, you don’t have to –”

“-No, it’s, it’s just I’ll always think I could have done more to save him. And to him, I couldn’t be . . .” he stops, and lets out a shaky breath and MJ’s heart clenches. “I couldn’t be the hero he deserved.”

And she thinks she gets it now.

“That’s not true, Peter. From what I’ve heard from May, and even what Ned tells me, you guys were each other’s heroes, and I think he’d be so proud of you. That's why I drew it. Why I _wanted_ to draw it.”

The words hover there. It’s silent apart from the loud thudding of her heart in her ears, and she thinks maybe this was _too much_ , until:

_“Thank you.”_

She swallows. Mouth dry, voice scratchy. “You’re welcome, dork.”

He chuckles, it’s slightly wet and lacks any real mirth, but somehow the air doesn’t feel so thick any more.

“So . . .” he breathes out after a long, welcome moment of silence. “Is it my turn, again?”

She sighs. “Unfortunately.”

“Hey, this was your idea.”

“And I am vey regretful of the fact.”

“Too bad,” he says with the kind of confidence only darkness allows.

“What’s the question, Parker? And choose wisely.”

_“Did you mean it?”_ he asks with a hesitation that tells her that he had ignored her advice entirely. _“Did you mean what you said that night?”_

))((

 


	5. "What?! You kissed me!"

 

))((

MJ has never ‘played dumb’ in her life, but for once she wishes she had it in her to.

_Damn her self-respecting principles._

Oh it would be so easy to respond with an indifferent _“which night?”_ or _“I don’t know what you’re talking about”_ or even better: _“I can’t remember.”_

She chooses neither options a, b or c. No, instead her traitor mouth opens and says,

_“I meant it, Peter.”_

))((

 

She learns about the nightmares exactly how she learns about everything else involving Peter Parker.

Because Ned Leeds and Peter Parker – as she’s said before and will probably say with her dying breath – _are the worst secret keepers in the history of ever._

She overhears Ned one day during Phys. Ed. while she’s straggling behind the rest of the class leaving the gymnasium and puts two and two together.

“What happened today, dude? You usually manage at least fifty sit-ups without breaking a sweat.”

For once, it’s not an exaggeration, and may even be an underestimate.

So, she’s watched Peter a few times during class? It’s not a crime. And anyway, it’s kinda hard to ignore those biceps, flexed as they are when he’s on the mats. And its pure scientific interest with which she watches the ease of his movements. And _look,_ she’s not the only one who’s noticed, okay?

Of course, it all comes together – the sudden fitness, the way he fills out his t-shirts ( _again, purely an observation_ ) – when she figures out Peter Parker and Spider-Man are one and the same.

As does everything else – the disappearing acts, the terrible excuses, the _‘Stark Internship’._

She knows he puts himself in danger every time he dons the suit – she has first-hand experience with Washington, and that was damn scary just watching.

But in all of this she never really thought about the emotional toll until he says;

“Didn’t sleep great last night, that’s all.”

“Another nightmare?”

Peter reaches out and squeezes his friend on the shoulder before patting him on the back. “I’m fine, dude. Don’t worry about me.”

_Except, he’s not._

Because she’s paying attention.

She notices the off-days, when his rucksack looks heavier than usual, when there’s a slowness to his steps, and the days where he completely spaces out and pays even less attention than normal.

All of this is concerning, yes.

But it’s nothing to later in the year.

Something changes, and she can’t put her finger on it.

It’s weeks after the art show debacle (which they don’t talk about), leading up to the upcoming AcaDec finals (because, hell yeah, they got to the finals, as if it was ever in doubt?) when Ned lets slip just how worried he is.

And this time it’s not something she overhears.

No, Ned actually tells her to her face, and that in itself is enough to ring the alarm bells.

Of course, he does his best to be as vague as possible with his explanations, leaving MJ to read between the lines and hear everything he’s not saying.

The three of them are hanging out in Central Park on a Friday after school. It’s warm, sun low in the sky and dappling through the leaves of the tree they’re sitting under. MJ has her back to the trunk, knees bent and sneakers pressing into the grass. Her physics homework is spread open on her lap, with a copy of _A Long Walk to Freedom_ blatantly open on top of it.

Peter disappears; something about grabbing something to eat, but MJ suspects he heard a cat mewling in distress from the other side of the park and has run off to rescue it. _Or something equally stupidly noble and good._

Which leaves her and Ned.

She waits two minutes.

Two minutes of him constantly looking over his shoulders, sighing every five seconds, and fidgeting in his spot, before she slams her book shut and drops her physics textbook to the ground.

“Alright, Leeds. What’s up?”

“What?” Ned squeaks. “Nothing. Nothing’s up. Everything’s fine.”

She narrows her gaze and he looks like he’s in absolute agony trying to keep his mouth shut. In the end, he sighs, and gives in.

“I’m worried about . . . _a friend_.”

She raises a brow at that. Because _really? A friend?_ She lets it go.

“Go on,” she prompts, and he visibly sighs in relief at her lack of prodding.

“Um this friend of mine. They’ve gone through some pretty . . . _traumatic stuff._ ”

“Define traumatic.”

Ned widens his eyes, opens and closes his mouth.

“Abused? Physically? Mentally? Attacked? Lost loved ones? Got injured?” she prompts.

_“Died . . . ?”_

It comes off more like a question than an answer and it doesn’t compute. She stares back at him. He shifts again on the spot. Her heart thunders in her chest, and she tries to reassure herself that the Peter Parker that greeted her this morning by her locker with a dorky smile and a bag of homemade cookies – May’s cookies which are kinda terrible, and they both know it, but humour her anyway because May is the best and she deserves the world – was very much alive. And not a ghostly figment of her imagination.

 _“Did he?”_ she asks, and thankfully Ned doesn’t notice her pronoun slip.

“No . . . yes . . . _maybe._ Um, he thinks he did. And lots of other people, too. And he’s not sleeping. Like at all.”

Ned doesn’t notice his own pronoun slip either, so MJ runs with it.

“Has he talked to anyone about it. A professional?”

And by that she means one of the shrinks Tony Stark must have on his pay roll. Given the kind of shit the Avengers get themselves into, MJ figures mental health must be included in the medical plan.

“No, he ca-. Uh, refuses to.”

She breathes out and drops her head against the bark of the tree. “You can’t help someone unless they’re ready to accept they have a problem.”

“Yeah I know. It just . . . _sucks._ ” He looks so sad and deflated as he says it, and MJ’s heart twists in her chest.

Goddamn, but she loves both these idiot boys so much.

“You’re a good friend, Ned.”

His cheeks turn a little pink and he shrugs. “I try.”

“Try what?”

They both look up to find Peter standing there with three hot-dogs in his hands, glancing from one to the other.

“To be the biggest _Star Wars_ nerd on the planet,” MJ answers. It’s totally a lame cover but she doesn’t think it matters. Peter’s not stupid and he knows not to expect an honest answer.

He shrugs, dropping to the grass and handing out the food, and plays along. “Yeah, no. That would be me.”

MJ shakes her head. “Nope. And I can’t believe I’m saying this. But you guys aren’t _that_ nerdy. Nice try. Both of you. But I’ve seen worse.”

And as Peter starts rambling about all the ways he is a nerd (which okay, well-played, cos there’s nothing nerdier than that), she shares a glance with Ned.

There’s gratitude there in that smile.

She nods back, and silently tells him:

_I got this._

)(

 

A week after that, the Decathlon gang head North to Providence for this year’s final.

Half the bus ride there is spent chatting and singing (not that she joins in) and waking Mr Harrington up from his dozing every five minutes or so (– the poor, beleaguered man). The other half is spent on lightning round practice questions, and MJ feels quietly confident, because Flash – miracle of miracles – actually manages to get a question right for once. And it’s either a sign that things are looking up, or it’s a sign of a looming apocalypse. There is no middle ground. But she’s Miss Glass-Half-Full today, so she figures it’s the former and takes it as a good omen.

When they get there it’s just after noon, and unlike the DC competition, the finals are that very same evening. It means they’ll have to stay the night in one of the hotels and head back to New York tomorrow morning.

It also means there’s not a lot of time to do anything between lunch and showtime, apart from cram and panic – and each of the team take it in turns for their freak-out (after all, they’re _defending champions_ ) and MJ is there to metaphorically rub their backs and tell them it’s gonna be okay.

And by that, she means glaring at them and telling them to “suck it up.”

It works.

_They win._

And with no alien-tech stealing villains to battle, Peter actually competes this time. And though he doesn’t do half bad, it’s Ned who steals the show this year with the final, winning answer.

_It feels amazing._

Mr Harrington allows them their little celebration back at the hotel, if they promise to behave. Though there’s not a lot for him to worry about – the most rebellious these losers get is sneaking into each other’s, supposedly _not_ co-educational rooms, in their PJs, playing music out loud and cramming their faces with junk food and staying up until 2am.

So very rock-and-roll.

Peter sneaks away early and Ned’s new popularity means he’s stuck in the clutches of his teammates, and MJ is immune to the look of desperation he shoots her way as she too slips out of the room.

She doesn’t think about it too hard as she walks past her own door and knocks on another.

“Dude! Did you lose your room key already?!”

The door swings open to a shirtless Peter Parker, clearly expecting their other mutual best friend, and it takes _a lot_ for her to stop her eyes from wandering down to those abs.

“MJ? What –”

She pushes past him, walks into the room and drops down onto one of the twin beds.

“That’s uh, that’s my bed . . .” he stammers, pink staining his cheeks as he grabs his t-shirt and pulls it back down over his head again. “Um, what are you doing here?” he asks, standing by her feet, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck.

“My room’s too far away,” she lies, and then she’s kicking off her slippers and wriggling down under the covers, before rolling over away from him and closing her eyes.

“Hit the lights, would you?”

The request is half-mumbled into the pillow, but she knows he heard her by the way he breathes out and finally pads across the room in his bare feet and takes Ned’s bed instead. Once the fabric stops rustling and he’s settled, he hits the lights just like she asked, and the room is plunged into darkness.

“MJ?” he whispers after a moment of silence.

“Stop thinking so hard, and go to sleep, Parker.”

And he does just that.

It stings a little that it only takes ten minutes for him to drift off, but she figures the lack of sleep and exhaustion has finally caught up to him – and with every unspoken thing going on in his life, she can’t begrudge him that.

And once she convinces her own brain to shut the hell up, she follows suit twenty minutes later.

Her sleep is fitful and light.

She vaguely remembers Ned stumbling in at some point during the night and taking the armchair in the corner of the room. And that’s how MJ finds him when she wakes an hour, maybe two, later. There’s a twinge of guilt there at the sight as the moonlight seeps in through the half-drawn curtains, but that’s quickly overridden by concern as the soft whimpering starts up.

It’s Peter.

She rolls over in his direction, but his face is hidden in shadows and she can’t really see him. And so, she swings her legs over the side of her own bed and tiptoes the short distance over to his.

In the bluish-tinged light of the room, she can make out his creased forehead, eyes that are screwed tight, the slight movement of his lips as he mumbles something under his breath. She can barely make out what he’s saying but figures this must be one of the nightmares Ned’s been so worried about.

She sits on the edge of the mattress, in two minds about whether to touch him and physically rouse him. She opts first for calling out a soft, “Peter,” but that does nothing. He just starts shaking his head from side to side, and that’s when she sees the tears leaking from his eyes and the mumbled words become clear, and she can never un-hear them.

 _“I don’t wanna go. Please. I don’t wanna go.”_ He says over and over – broken and afraid.

“Peter,” she calls out a little more firmly, hand pressing at his shoulder. “Peter, wake up. It’s just a bad dream. You’re not going anywhere.”

She’s not prepared for it when his eyes snap open right then. Because they’re glistening wet, wide and terrified, and _god_ , she is so in over her head for this boy and it’s way past the point of denial. Because that thing? That thing writer’s wax poetical about – breaking hearts and some such hyperbolic, sentimental crap? Yeah, she thinks hers has done just that at the sight of those brown eyes, dark and desperate in this moment.

“MJ?” he whispers, voice cracking and he squeezes his eyes shut again before opening them once more as if to blink whatever was haunting him behind closed eyelids away.

“Yeah. It’s me. You’re right here. Safe. You’re not going anywhere,” she says again.

He lets out a shudder of a breath, and then his eyes dart around the room, taking in the still sleeping Ned, before he rests his eyes on her once more.

“I’m sorry for waking you,” he says on a swallow, his voice trembling. “But I’m fine now. You can go back to sleep.”

She shakes her head, and says flatly, “yeah, I’ll just go on and do that.”

It’s 4am and clearly Peter’s brain is not functioning to its full capabilities and so he doesn’t spot the sarcasm.

She rolls her eyes. “Budge over.”

 _“What?”_ he mouths silently.

“Move your ass, Parker.”

He does.

Pressing himself as far back as he can without falling off the edge, his eyes widen to almost the size of the ones on his Spider-Man mask as she lifts the edge of the covers and climbs into the bed next to him.

There’s not a lot of space in the twin bed for him and her long legs, but she manages to find space to rest her head next to his on the pillow and turns to look at him. He’s still watching her in shock, and it’s better than seeing the despair and fear in his eyes, that’s for sure.

“Relax Peter, I’m not gonna maul you in your sleep.”

“I know,” he honest-to-god squeaks, before clearing this throat. “I just . . . uh, _why?_ ”

“Cos I read somewhere having a warm body next to you when you’re suffering from whatever traumatic shit and nightmares can help you sleep.”

And good lord, is he warm. She can feel his thigh pressed against hers, his breath hot where it tickles against the side of her face and ruffles her loosened curls.

“Oh. Oh right.”

“Unless you wanna talk about it? Cos that helps, too.”

He blinks back at her, and she can see the internal struggle play out across his face.

“MJ, I . . .”

And she tries not to be too disappointed, because she’d known it wouldn’t be as easy as that, this whole getting him to talk thing.

“Another time, maybe,” she says, and she hopes he understands what she’s really trying to say.

_I’m here if you need me._

Something flickers in his gaze, but it’s gone before she can read anything into it.

“Just sleep, Peter.”

“Okay,” he says softly, closing his eyes and breathing out.

She watches his face; can tell he’s nowhere near asleep as the corner of his lip flickers into a smile and she allows her own smile to creep into the pillow at the sight.

“Hey MJ?” he whispers.

“What, loser?”

“Thanks.”

And then she feels it, the hand that searches for hers and finds it, gently entwining his fingers with hers.

She doesn’t say anything, just squeezes back.

It’s only after his breathing steadies, and she thinks he’s asleep, she whispers one of her secrets into the dark.

_“You’re the best person I know, Peter Parker.”_

He sleeps peacefully the rest of the night.

 

))((

 

“I meant it,” she says again. “But I thought you were asleep.”

“I wasn’t.”

And it feels like those two words carry so much weight, and MJ feels them drop anchor in the pit of her stomach.

“Well, you were supposed to be.” The words come across a little petulant and snappy, because it feels a lot like being duped and she hates the feeling.

Peter, to his credit, says nothing more after that, and she thinks maybe _that’s that_.

It falls silent once again, and she focusses her attention on the incessant _drip, drip, drip_ of the leaking pipe instead of her thumping heartbeat. That damned pipe hasn’t let up since they’ve been caged in here, and she’d been doing a good job of ignoring it up until now.

“MJ, about that morning –”

_Maybe not._

She knows exactly what he’s going to ask, and so she interrupts because _nope._ They’re not doing this. This is where she draws the line. “I thought you were trying to figure out a way to get us out of here?”

“I am, but MJ –”

“So much for multi-tasking –”

“ –MJ –”

“It’s not even your turn,” she groans.

“Honestly,” he breathes out, “I don’t know how I’m gonna get us out of these ties, and I don’t want us to die without –”

“Thought you weren't gonna let anything happening to me?”

“ _MJ_ . . .”

“Fine,” she sighs, deep and heavy. “Fair’s fair. It’s my turn, though, so I’ll ask it.”

She swallows down her fear and faces it head on, and finally asks the question they've both been avoiding all night.

_“Why did you kiss me?”_

))((

 


	6. “Like you wanna kiss me again.”

))((

 

 

It’s a whole minute before he answers, just checking and re-checking in his mind that he heard her right.

But yep.

That’s exactly what she’d said.

_“What?!_ You _kissed_ me _!”_

“No,” MJ says to that. “Pretty sure _you_ kissed _me._ ”

“No,” Peter stutters, and this is _exactly_ why they’ve been avoiding talking about _The Incident._ Because he still isn’t sure _what happened_ , let alone _how it happened,_ and he’d even, at one point, convinced himself it’d just been a dream. His subconscious playing tricks on his mind. “That’s not how it happened.”

“Yes, it did.”

“Didn’t.”

“Did.”

“Lookie here, Pipsqueak and Long Stockings are having a lover’s tiff. Adorable.”

The sudden voice filling the room, is booming and deep, and reverberates around the open space, vibrating through every fibre of his body. His hairs stand instantly on end, everything screaming at him to get up and fight. Except, _he can’t_. And that’s been their problem this entire time.

Neither of them had heard the door scraping open, too wrapped up in arguing the semantics of what had happened that morning, which, of course, pales in significance to what’s happening _right now._

Up until this point, they’d had very little interaction with the thugs that had kidnapped them. Apart from the initial pistol-whip to his head, and whatever they’d used to knock MJ out, they hadn’t done anything more than tying them up and leaving them in the dark for several hours at a guess. Peter doesn’t know exactly how long it’s been, in truth. But it feels like forever.

This, however, is the first time since that initial encounter where he feels like they’re in any real, imminent danger.

And MJ must sense it too, because he can feel her tense behind him, her fingers searching for his and he grabs hold and squeezes tight. Because, of course, she can see their captor from where she’s sitting, and though he doesn’t have eyes in the back of his head he can feel the change in the pressure of the room; hear the dull, heavy footsteps as he draws near. Can hear the hands that grab at MJ’s armrests and the way it creaks under the force of his fingertips, and he can feel the way he leans forward over her because it has her pressing further backwards into him.

His blood boils and his hands strain against the ties for the thousandth time.

Damn it. Instead of playing this stupid game, and getting distracted, he should have been trying harder to find a way out of this mess all this time.

“Well, you’re a pretty thing, aren’t you?”

The words “don’t touch her!” are on the tip of his tongue, but MJ beats him to it.

“Touch me asshole, and die,” she spits out, and he can imagine the fierceness in her eyes, and the clench of her jaw as she does.

“Ho ho,” the jerk teases, laughter in his voice. “I like you – got some fire in your belly, haven’t you, girl?”

Peter feels her fingers tighten around his further, until her nails are digging into skin. It’s not as painful as it should be, and he figures he has adrenaline to thank for that.

“Too bad your superhero friend doesn’t seem to like you enough to come to your rescue. Guess our hero doesn’t care about the little people, after all.”

“You’re wrong,” MJ says then. “Spider-Man just has better things to do than to deal with dumbass pantomime villains. Seriously, dude? The moustache? It’s lame.”

Peter doesn’t know how to feel – part of him just wants to pinch her, tell her to shut up and stop poking the grizzly, likely-violent, bear, and the other part of him? Loves her. Like seriously. _He loves her._

Only Michelle Jones would be sitting here, absolutely terrified and defiantly hiding it behind barbs in that carefully pitched, bored drawl.

Thankfully, the meathead finds her hysterical.

He laughs then. Loud, and sudden, like a clap of thunder, and Peter near jumps out of his skin.

It takes what feels like an eternity, and only after one of his minions calls out an anxious “Boss?” for him to stop laughing.

“Spider-Man?” He says, and then again. _“Spider-Man?”_

And something cold slivers down Peter’s spine as it all clicks into place.

“Who said anything about Spider-Man? I don’t care about that punk-ass kid. He’s small fry. It’s Tony Stark, I want. Mr _Iron Man_ himself.”

And of course, it’s then that Peter realises they’d never actually said anything about Spider-Man, they’d just assumed.

And clearly, they’d assumed wrong.

“What makes you think he’d come for us?” Peter manages to finally say.

There’s the heavy thud of footsteps as the leader of this little kidnapping ring, steps around the chairs to face him.

He never really got a good look at him the first time.

The man’s built like a block. Like someone dumped and squeezed his head onto a slab of a body. He’s got no neck and has a bulging vein in his forehead. It’s almost like he’s a pink-fleshed version of Hulk – except there’s no nice guy hiding away under that same consciousness, and he’s one hundred percent evil. Oh, and he has a moustache. And MJ’s right. It’s a pretty _crappy_ moustache.

“Don’t play dumb, Pipsqueak. I don’t know why exactly, but he’s seems to have taken an interest in you. So, you tell me, _what’s so special about you, kid?_ ”

“Um. Nothing.” He stammers, before clearing his throat and saying a little more firmly. “Nothing at all. I’m just another one of his interns. I’m nothing.” He shrugs. “Nothing special.”

He feels MJ knock her head against his at that. Almost as if to tell him to _shut the hell up._

“So, you’re saying,” evil pink-Hulk drawls, pressing his hands into the armrests and leaning forward – his breath stinks of cigars and stale beer and Peter can almost taste the bitterness with how close his face gets – “that Tony Stark wouldn’t care one vibranium atom if I were to put a bullet in your head right now?”

_“No . . . ?”_ The word comes out on a shaky whisper.

“Well damn,” he says then, straightening up. “That’s disappointing. What a huge fucking waste of my time. Guess I should just shoot the both of you and be done with it then, huh?”

And the really scary thing is, Peter can’t tell if he’s being serious.

“Wait, no! Um. Let me um talk to him,” he says, panic seeping into the words.

He narrows his gaze, suspicion in every crease and crinkle of his expression. “You’re telling me, you’ve got Tony Stark’s number on speed-dial? And you’re still saying, you’re nothing special?”

“No! I just meant, um –”

“He means,” MJ cuts in right then, “like talk to him in one of those hostage videos, you know? Hood, blinding spot light, misspelled cue cards. Like how does he even know you’ve got us here? Man, you guys really _are_ terrible villains.”

Peter doesn’t know where she’s going with this, but he trusts her, and trusts she knows what she’s doing.

“That ain’t a bad idea, Boss,” one of his henchmen (and Peter’s gonna call him Lackey #1) chirps up. Evil pink-Hulk fixes him with a glare and Lackey #1 takes a sheepish step back into the dark.

“Get the camera over here and set up a live feed,” he orders Lackey #2 as he straightens up. Because, clearly, no one gives him the ideas – he’s the master and brains of this operation, after all.

“No, wait!” MJ calls out.

He steps back around, and it makes Peter nervous not to be able to see what he’s doing once more.

“What? More bright ideas, Missy?”

“No, I just need to pee first.”

There’s silence then, making the persistent _drip, drip, drip_ in the background a lot louder as he waits for someone to say something.

Peter wishes he could see what’s going on behind him, but he figures he’s buying what MJ’s selling, as he hears him say. “Fine. No funny business though.” The footsteps recede and there’s the quiet whispering of “you? take the girlfriend, and you? watch the boy like a hawk, you understand me? Or I’ll use you for practice shots, got it?”

“Understood, Boss.”

He hears the clang of metal as he climbs up some stairs, leaving them alone with two of his goons.

He feels MJ clench her fingers around his one last time before pulling away, and somehow, he understands the message exactly.

He can see Lackey #1 from the periphery of his vision as he crouches down, flipping open a knife to press against the ties holding them together. There’s a flicker of neon purple and blue from the blade, and Peter figures it’s alien tech too.

He feels the ties slackening as it cuts through, and it would be so easy to strike out right now, but he needs to play this smart.

Lackey #2 stops in front of MJ, and Peter twists his head over his shoulder to watch as the guy grabs her by the upper arm and pulls her to her feet.

He chooses that moment to stand up too, but Lackey #1 presses a hand against his chest and tries to push him back down. Peter stands firm.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“I need to pee too.”

“Nice try.”

“No, I’m serious.”

“What am I your kindergarten teacher taking you kids on restroom breaks?”

“I mean,” Peter shrugs, “you could just give me a bottle?”

“Or how about you just go piss in the corner?!”

“Which one?” he asks, and spins on the spot. “That one?” he points, arm stretched out, and then he spins again, and this time catches the guy hard around the head. He staggers back, just as Peter shrugs, “or that one?”

Lackey #2 takes a step away from MJ towards Peter, looking more than a little suspicious as Lackey#1 cries out with a “hey! You little shit! You did that on purpose!”

“Did what?” Peter says, eyes flickering over to MJ, and she’s doing just as he’d hoped she would – slowly edging away to a safe enough distance so he can, well, _do . . ._

_“This?”_ he asks, flipping over the chair, before grabbing it by the arms and smashing it over the top of Lackey #1’s head.

He crumples to the ground unconscious.

_One down, two to go._

Lackey #2 growls and starts to take a run at him just as MJ calls out:

“Peter!”

He looks up in time to see the incoming rusted pipe she’s thrown in his direction, and he catches it deftly in one hand before swinging it low and hard, swiping the asshole off his feet.

He lands with a groan.

Peter quickly grabs hold of the abandoned ties on the ground, and MJ runs back over to him to help put it to good use against the two idiots, winding it around their feet and tying them together. MJ leans over and swipes the knife from the ground beside them, before standing up.

“Nice work, Parker.”

“You too.”

“Okay, so now what?” she asks, looking over the room.

“Up there,” Peter says pointing up at the metal walkway ahead. “It’s the only exit I can see, come on.”

He takes the steps two at a time, with MJ following close behind, but their opportunity to escape is scuppered just as quickly as it presented itself, when the door pushes open at the same time Peter reaches for it.

He stumbles back, colliding with MJ, but stays rooted to the spot, putting himself between her and their captor.

“Going somewhere?” evil pink-Hulk says, with an eerie smile on his face. He steps closer to Peter, and he has no choice to back away.

“The restroom,” Peter says, as he and MJ are forced all the way back down to the ground.

“Really? And you had to take out my men, when they oh so kindly were gonna show you the way?”

Peter doesn’t dare look behind him and follow his gaze to the incapacitated grown men on the ground. “Still nothing special, huh?” he says with an arched brow, before abruptly grabbing him by the collar and yanking him forwards. He feels his shirt cutting into the skin of his neck; and the tighter he squeezes, the harder it’s getting to breathe.

“Hey, asshole!” MJ calls out then. “What makes you so sure it wasn’t me?”

And even with the oxygen supply to his brain rapidly depleting, he still manages to choke out a, “no, MJ, don’t!”

Evil pink-Hulk tosses him aside and stalks closer to her.

“You’re telling me _you_ took them out, all by your lonesome, while your useless boyfriend watched?”

“Yep,” MJ spits out. “And looks like it’s your turn next.”

And that’s when Peter sees it. The same flicker of blue and purple from the edge of the blade, and he’d completely forgotten she still had that in her grasp.

The asshole laughs at that about the same time MJ lunges.

It all happens in slow motion, and Peter’s heart’s in his throat, because MJ’s no match for the brute physically, and the swipe of her blade doesn’t even leave a scratch. He manages to effortlessly wrench it from her grasp and at the same time knock her to the ground with a single back-hand.

Peter sees red.

The “NO!” that bursts from his lips is primal and torn from somewhere deep inside his chest cavity, where it had previously been tied to every major vessel in his heart. He thinks he may just bleed out internally, _because she’s not moving_. There’s a trickle of blood falling from her hairline, and his vision is blurred, so he doesn’t even see the subtle movement of her chest as he staggers to his feet.

The asshole spins the blade in his fingers as he looks up, and Peter is ready to fly into him – lack of suit, and web-shooters, secret-identity be damned.

But then, _it happens._

Too fast to comprehend.

One minute it’s just the two of them facing off, the next the doors are being blown wide open and a rapid burst of bullets fly overhead.

Peter falls to his knees, hands over his ears. Ears that ring with the noise of automatic gunfire, and the thud of marching boots on the ground.

Someone’s yelling, “GO, GO, GO!” And then: “Hands up, on your knees, NOW!”

And it takes someone grabbing his shaking hands and the barely registering words, “not you kid, you’re fine. You’re safe, now,” for him to realise that this is a rescue.

_Their rescue._

One of the SWAT team members kneels down next to him and says, “you got friends in high places, kid.”

He barely hears, because there’s only one friend he cares about. “My friend, MJ, she’s -” he starts.

“Relax, she’s breathing. We’ve got an ambulance waiting outside and your family are waiting at the hospital.”

“How did they –”

At the SWAT guy’s look he doesn’t finish the question. _Of course_ , he thinks, as he nods and says, “ah right. Friends in high places.”

“Exactly.”

Peter pulls himself to stand, and watches as their kidnappers are cuffed and rounded up, and he’s treated to an epic stink-eye from evil pink-Hulk as he passes by.

“Come on,” SWAT guy says, “let’s get you two out of here.”

 

))((

 

The next few hours melt together, and Peter has only a hazy recollection of what happens.

He remembers riding in the ambulance with MJ, guilt chewing his insides at the sight of her unconscious, and the blood that’s stained the top of her shirt from her head wound. The rise and fall of her chest is some comfort, and a reminder that this whole thing could have turned out a whole lot worse.

He imagines if she’d been awake, she would have told him to stop moping – _“Jeez, Parker,”_ she would have said, _“not everything that goes wrong is your fault. Also. Kinda narcissistic to think it is.”_

And maybe she would have been right.

Doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel awful.

Especially at the sight of MJ’s parents hovering worriedly in the emergency room. They crowd around her and Peter can do nothing but hang back and watch as they wheel her away.

Aunt May’s there, pale and terrified, as she pulls him into a crushing hug.

He remembers her mumbling into his hair over and over. “Oh thank god. Thank god.” And then, “I’m gonna kill him. I swear.”

“Kill who?” Peter asks.

“Tony Stark, who else?” Ned answers then, and it’s only then that Peter notices his best friend standing there on the side and pulls him into a hug as Aunt May lets go. She says something about going to try and find out what’s happening with MJ. Over the top of Ned’s shoulder, he catches her eye, and she must see the anxiety written all over his face as she mouths, _“she’s gonna be fine.”_

He purses his lips and nods back, watching her disappear down the same hallway, leaving him and Ned hugging in the middle of an empty waiting room.

There are a few people dozing uncomfortably in the hard, plastic chairs, but no one’s paying them any mind.

Peter pulls back, and grasps Ned by the shoulders, “I thought you went off to see if your Lolo was ok?”

“He’s fine,” Ned shrugs, “told you it was just indigestion.”

“How did you guys know . . . _oh, right, Tony_.”

“Yeah,” Ned says, pulling him down to sit on the chairs. “He got Cromwell’s ransom message about you guys being taken hostage but thought he’d try and deal with it quietly, you know, _so not to draw attention to you being_ _Spider-Man_.” He says the last bit on a hushed whisper, eyes darting _not-so inconspicuously_ around them.

“Yeah, cos calling in a SWAT team is quiet,” Peter scoffs.                       

And then Peter realises something. “ _Cromwell?_ The guy who kidnapped us?”

“Yeah, so apparently, the guy used to work for Stark Industries back in the day, got fired after getting done for assault and possession, and then his son got caught up in the Battle of New York, and he blames Iron Man for it. So, yeah. Double whammy.”

Peter lets that sink in, and his thoughts must be written all over his face, because Ned then says, “no, dude. Don’t feel bad for him. I mean, yeah it sucks he lost his son, but so did so many people, and you don’t see them kidnapping high schoolers!”

He shakes his head. “Yeah you’re right.”

Ned grins at that.

“Sooooo,” he starts, “what happened in there? Was it like in the movies? Was it terrifying?”

Peter laughs, though there’s really nothing amusing about it when he admits;

“Yeah, Ned. It was terrifying.”

 

))((

 

It’s hours later, after he’s told Ned all about what happened.

After Tony Stark rings him on Ned’s cell phone – and Ned freaks the hell out and nearly drops it on the floor – and he listens to him apologise and ask if he’s okay, if MJ’s okay, and Peter can only reply with an _I don’t know. I hope so._ And Tony tells him _she’s gonna be fine, Peter,_ and asks, _so you have a girlfriend, huh?_ in that voice that says I’m gonna tease the shit out of you, and he responds with a _bye Mr Stark,_ and hangs up on him, and Ned gapes at him, because He. Did. That.

It’s after Aunt May fights him on leaving him sitting there alone, but he just tells her he’ll sneak out the window and come right back, and so she lets him stay. She almost stays too, but he reminds her she’s Ned’s ride home because his parents have long gone home with his Lolo.

It’s after they leave him waiting, that MJ’s parents finally emerge and tell him that all the scans came back fine, and she’s okay and just resting now, and he can visit in the morning. He declines their offer of a lift and lies and says Aunt May’s gonna come back and pick him up.

Because he can’t go yet.

Because it’s only after he sneaks up to the fourth floor, past the nurses’ station and slips into her room, and sees her sleeping that he can _finally breathe._

The room is dark, lit softly by the single lamp in the corner, but he can see her perfectly. She’s lying there in the hospital bed, and he thinks it must be a good sign that she’s not hooked up to any machines, looking peaceful with her eyes closed, curls loose on the bright white of the pillow.

His eyes are drawn to the wound on the side of her head next, and it’s partially covered by her hair. He steps closer, shaky fingers reaching forward to brush it aside, and he’s relieved to see now that the dried blood’s been cleaned away, it’s only a superficial cut. Only needing butterfly tape to keep it together and no stitches. He leaves his fingers there, lingering against her skin, almost as if now that he’s touching her, he can’t bear to break the connection because she might disappear – turning to ash and dust under his fingertips like _they all do_ in his recurring nightmares.

“Creepy, much?”

He jerks his hand away and stumbles back.

Her eyes are open and she’s staring at him, and he swears its amusement flickering in her gaze – because she can’t know what’s running through his mind.

“What time is it?” she asks.

“Oh um, nearly 5 in the morning.”

She lifts up the edge of her sheets, and he doesn’t want to presume, but he thinks he knows just what she’s implying, and maybe she _does know_ what he’s thinking, because maybe she feels the same.

He stands there, teetering the edge of going into full-on panic mode.

Because the last time they did this, well . . . _they never did finish talking about it, did they?_

“I’m not gonna maul you in your sleep, Peter,” she says, with a hint of a smirk and the familiar words ease some of the tension. “Maybe in the morning, though.”

He shakes his head, a huff of laughter leaving his lips and easing the tension a little.

“Pretty sure this isn’t allowed.”

“Pretty sure I don’t care.”

And he doesn’t have to think too hard, because Peter doesn’t really care either.

He cares that she’s alive, and he needs to know that for sure. At least that’s what he tells himself as he climbs onto the bed and settles his head on the pillow next to hers and relishes in the fact she’s warm, and alive, breathing beside him.

“I’m sorry –”

“Peter.”

“I know, I can’t help it, I just feel this wouldn’t have happened if I –”

“What?” she whispers, eyes on his, and this close he can see the flecks of gold in the brown, and she has really beautiful eyes he thinks not for the first time. “If you weren’t Spider-Man? Well, I guess all my friends would be dead, probably twice over then. If anyone’s to blame, Peter, it’s Stark –”

He widens his eyes at that, protests, “it’s not his fault that they took us!”

“So, genius?” MJ says then with a raised brow and a smirk, “if it’s not Stark’s fault, how do you figure it’s yours?”

_And check and mate to Michelle Jones._

“Good point.”

“I know.”

And he can’t help it – staring back at her. Her eyes have slipped close, her breathing evening out as she snuggles closer, her cheek pressing against his shoulder and her breath warm against the skin of his neck. He thinks she’s close to falling back asleep, but she’s not quite there yet, as she says softly.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

And then, Peter asks his final question, just as soft into the dark.

_“Like what?”_

 

))((

 


	7. "Seven minutes in Heaven."

)(

_“Stop looking at me like that, you weirdo.”_

_“Like what?”_

_“Like I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”_

And Peter clearly doesn’t think it through when his mouth opens, and he whispers into the morning light, _“you are.”_

There’s a hazy recollection of the night before, the remnants of the nightmare that’s been playing over and over still lingering at the back of his mind. He knows that it had happened, but at the same time, it feels like it couldn’t possibly be real. And it’s that deep blackhole in his gut, this feeling of the cold, lonely nothingness of no longer existing, and the fear of the infinite eternity of emptiness that plagues him.

He knows it’s not right – the lack of sleep, the nightmares. Knows Ned’s been worried about him. But he just doesn’t know how to fix it. Or if it can be fixed.

Funny then, how it turns out that all he needs for a restful night’s sleep is Michelle Jones lying beside him.

He remembers the shock of her even suggesting getting into the same bed as him.

Remembers lying there as still as possible so not to touch her, even accidently.

But then he remembers how she offered to listen to him talk, and even though somehow she had known he would turn her down, she hadn’t taken it to heart. There was something in her gaze then as she’d told him simply, _“just sleep, Peter.”_

And he’d felt _safe._

Safe enough to reach for her hand and though he knows MJ, knows her aversion to sappy shows of emotion and PDA, he’d known, unerringly, she wouldn’t flinch away.

And she hadn’t.

And somehow, overnight, that turned from only hands touching, to being wrapped around each other to the point where he can’t tell where he ends and she begins.

He’s the first to wake.

_Or so he thinks._

The first thing he feels is calm – his mind blissfully quiet. Just endless ocean curved around a horizon and the accompanying hum of silence – because even silence has a sound, and it sounds like peace.

A small sigh reaches his ears next and he feels it as a puff of warm breath against his neck. He feels the hand that’s curled around his chest, fingers clenching the cotton of his t-shirt, as his own hand rests on her waist.

He’s too scared to move – afraid it’ll ruin the moment.

She’s facing him, cheek resting on his shoulder, and he has to tilt his head back to look at her. Her hair is spread in a halo of disarrayed curls and his fingers twitch with the itch to touch them and see if they’re as soft as they look.

He’s never seen her look like this – so soft, so unguarded, and so beautiful. The morning light filtering through the curtains has cast a dreamlike haze over the picture and he’s too scared to close his eyes again for fear she’ll disappear.

And so, yeah, he’s staring.

Like a total creep.

And of course, she’s not asleep. At all. And calls him out on it.

The words leaving her lips are raspy with the leftover dredges of sleep, and he thinks his heart is probably doing somersaults, _because damn_ , that feeling in his chest? It’s weird, and he can’t put a name to it, but it feels equally as amazing as it does terrifying. Kinda like flying.

He thinks that must be why he opens his mouth and admits that maybe she’s right. Maybe she is the best thing that’s happened to him, and he _just says it_ like the lovestruck idiot he is.

_“You are.”_

The two words sit there between them, until she finally opens her eyes.

“Damn, Parker,” she whispers. “That was smooth.”

Her eyes are sparkling in this light, and at first glance he thinks it may just be laughter, but there’s a tension to the way she holds the smirk on her lips, in the fingers that hold him in place.

And as always, that’s when the self-doubt starts to creep in.

“Um, I – I just meant . . .”

“And, _there he is,”_ she says with a slight shake of her head and a sigh. And he wonders if it’s just his imagination, but her eyes dim a fraction almost in disappointment, and the smirk loses its curve leaving that same press of lips he sees every day – the portcullis to the fortress of what she really feels.

Because what _she thinks_ has never been the problem.

Always happy to unleash the truth with a well-timed barb.

But it’s what _she feels_ that evades him.

Sometimes, Peter thinks, she’s trying to tell him something. The drawing of him and Uncle Ben flashes in his mind. The fact she came to their room last night, when he knows for a fact her own is only three doors down. How she climbed into _his_ bed and stayed here all night, her own leg slipping in between his, and how she _still_ hasn’t made any attempt to move away.

Maybe she’s been telling him how she feels all along, and like a complete and utter idiot he hasn’t been able to put it together.

_Until now._

And so, before he can talk himself out of it, Peter gives into the itch and brushes away the curls that stick to the side of her face. Her eyes widen at the touch; breath held on an inhale as his fingers linger there. Slowly, he traces down the curve of her cheek and presses his thumb to her lower lip and keeps it there.

His fingers are shaking, but that doesn’t matter. Because the breath that leaves her is a tremble, too.

In his head, she’s the one that edges forward.

In truth, they meet each other halfway.

His eyes slip close, and then he feels nothing but the press of her lips against his.

They stay like that for an infinite second, frozen on that moment before he breathes in, _breathes her in_ , and then they’re kissing.

Peter doesn’t think either of them really know what they’re doing, but it’s pure instinct that has him cradling her head, fingers caught in the strands of her hair. He thinks it’s that same instinct that has MJ pressing into him, pushing him back, as her own fingers curl around his waist, and slip under his t-shirt. Hot fingers against equally hot skin, and then his brain fries and he stops thinking altogether and loses himself to the moment.

A moment that doesn’t last nearly as long as it should.

The sudden loud yawn from one Ned Leeds right then has Peter reeling back so fast, he topples gracelessly off the side of the bed, and lands with a thud on the carpeted floor of the hotel room.

He’s too stunned to process what the hell just happened.

MJ looks down at him with wide eyes, but the shock is rapidly replaced by amusement as she shakes her head at him, and mouths a familiar “loser” with red, swollen lips, and Peter’s in too much of a daze to comprehend it. It’s only seconds later, when Ned yawns again, and he hears him stand, blanket falling to the ground as he stretches away the kinks in his neck from sleeping in the chair all night, that it dawns on him just what the two of them had been doing.

With Ned _right there._

_Holy crap._

He and MJ kissed. They were kissing. Holy. Shit.

“Peter?” Ned asks, and he looks up to find their best friend standing at the foot of the bed, still with sleep in his eyes, looking more than a little confused. “Why are you on the floor?”

“I uh, fell.” Peter manages to answer, though his breath comes out more ragged than he’d like.

Ned looks up from him, and then to MJ, and luckily pays no attention to her ruffled appearance. After all, somehow MJ’s managed to collect herself enough to be leaning casually back against the headboard, fixing him with a classic, poker-faced stare, that it distracts him enough for his next sentence to fizzle into nothing.

“I could have sworn you were sleeping in that bed,” he points, “last night, or maybe . . . _not._ ” He shrugs. “Never mind. Whatever. I call first dibs on the shower!”

And then he’s running off and disappearing behind a locked door, leaving the two of them. _Alone._

“Um,” Peter starts after a long moment of silence.

But reality comes knocking then, and the awkwardness settles in and MJ doesn’t let him finish his sentence – not that he had any idea what he was going to say in the first place.

She leaps off the bed and refuses to meet his eyes. “Okay, well I gotta go,” she says, staggering back towards the door. “See you later, Parker.”

And _that’s it._

She practically runs out of the room, leaving him sitting there on the floor, possibly mildly concussed and trying not to freak the hell out.

And when Ned comes back out from his shower ten minutes later, that’s how he finds him.

“Dude?” he asks, concerned. _“Why are you still on the floor?”_

Peter can only groan in response, before dropping backwards, and staring up at the ceiling looking for an answer.

_There isn’t one._

 

))((

 

MJ flashes back to _that morning_ , and the question he left unanswered when they were so rudely interrupted by the jackass idiots that kidnapped them.

It’s hard not to. Not when they’ve somehow found themselves in the exact same position.

Except switch a hotel bed for a hospital bed, and an AcaDec state championship for a near-death experience, and his nightmares for her head wound, and it’s pretty much déjà vu.

Especially when he’s staring at her in the way that he is, echoes of the same question still thudding in her ears.

_“Like what?”_

_“Like you wanna kiss me again.”_

She answers differently this time, although her previous response still holds true, and it kinda blows her mind that he’d admitted, in his own way, how much she means to him the first time around.

Now though, she can only assume what will follow – the same back and forth argument over who kissed who. And the truth is, she can’t really remember who made the first move, and knows they’re equally as culpable.

The problem is, for all her fearlessness, MJ’s been in this boat longer than he has. Watching from afar as he crushed on Liz for most of his high school years, observing with casually feigned disinterest as he went through one life-changing event after the other, and silently admiring his strength of spirit, the tenacity of his _goodness_ and how life couldn’t beat it down in spite of how hard the bastard tried.

The truth is, she’s been in love with Peter Parker longer than she cares to admit.

And if he thinks she’s gonna make the first move, he’s got another thing coming.

But Peter surprises her.

_Again._

She’s still resting her head against his shoulder, eyes opening but not daring to look up beyond the curve of his jaw.

No, because he does it for her – hand reaching up to tilt her own head back and meet his gaze and those dumb, brown eyes.

He gently presses his forehead to hers, his own eyes fluttering close, and it’s a surreal moment – floating in between the possibility.

And just when she thinks he’s gonna do it, and make the first move, there’s the unwelcome sound of someone clearing their throat, super obnoxiously, and ruining it.

Peter flings himself back off her, and nearly gives himself a head injury in the process. At least this time he manages to save himself from falling off the bed and landing in an unceremonious heap on the floor.

MJ shakes her head at him, biting down on her lower lip to stop herself from laughing. Because, yeah, this whole thing with the constant interruptions? It’s freaking ridiculous. Although, it does give her a little satisfaction to note how Peter’s eyes drop to her mouth, pink staining his cheeks. She raises her eyebrows. He looks away.

“You’re not allowed to be in here, son,” the intruder speaks up.

They both look over to the middle-aged nurse as she walks into the room, MJ’s observation chart in hand. She fixes her gaze on the two of them, but it's the pointed stare in Peter’s direction that has him climbing off the bed post-haste, and stuttering an apology. “Sorry. I just –”

“Yeah, yeah, I wasn’t born yesterday. Not the first time some well-meaning boy has sneaked into their girlfriend’s room or vice versa. And hey, I’m not saying I’m a grinch when it comes to young love, but rules are rules, for a reason, young man.”

“Yes, ma’am. You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m leaving.”

“Hmm,” she says with a nod, before folding her arms around the clipboard in her hands and hugging it to her chest. She’s clearly not in the mood to budge until Peter’s well and truly out the door, and off this floor at the very least.

Reluctantly, Peter backs away. But before he disappears completely, he stops in the doorway and turns once more towards her. The tentative smile on his lips makes her stomach erupt in butterflies.

_Goddamn, Peter Parker. Turning her into a living, breathing cliché._

“See you later?” It’s more a question than a statement.

“See you tomorrow, dork.”

He grins.

And she’s left smiling, just as dumbly, at the door.

 

))((

 

The problem is: _nothing happens after that._

Apart from an increase in daydreaming and paying even less attention in class (which MJ suspects has everything to do with her), the dopey smiles, and the sentences that last no longer then five or six words every time they’re within two feet of each other – _nothing happens._

And it’s frustrating as hell.

Even Ned picks up on it.

“What the hell’s going on with you two? You’re being weirder than usual,” he asks one lunch time, about a week after the whole kidnapping ordeal is over.

“Weird?” Peter chokes on his drink. “No not being weird. We’re not being weird. Are we?”

He looks up at her, eyes a little wild, cheeks flushed, and once again he has her questioning why of all people, _it had to be him?_

“I’m not,” she shrugs. _“You are.”_

And he looks so utterly betrayed at that.

_Dork._

Ned narrows his gaze, pointing a finger back and forth between them. “Did something happen?”

“Yeah, we got kidnapped,” MJ deadpans.

“No, I mean _while you were kidnapped?”_

“No, we were tied together, in the dark. Like I told you before, Ned, there was nothing to do but sit and talk and wait,” Peter answers this time.

And it’s something in those words that draws her attention and makes her think, zoning completely out of the conversation for a moment.

“MJ . . . ? _MJ!_ ”

She doesn’t even realise Ned’s been calling her name.

“Mm, what?”

“I asked if that’s what happened?”

“Yeah,” she mutters, eyes flickering over to Peter sitting in front of her, cheeks now a lovely shade of – totally not suspicious at all – red. “That’s what happened.”

Ned doesn’t look convinced. He’s not an idiot.

Peter Parker, on the other hand, _is._

She tries not to second guess herself as the idea forms and decides _the hell with it._

Standing abruptly, they both stare up at her, but then she’s walking determinedly around the table, stopping in front of Peter and grabbing him by the hand and he’s so surprised he offers no resistance as she tugs him to his feet.

“Excuse me, Ned. Peter and I have some things we need to clear up.”

She doesn’t look back to see either of their expressions as she pulls him by the hand out of the cafeteria.

She definitely doesn’t see Ned’s initial shock turning into a grin as he leans over and steals the jello cup from her unfinished lunch tray, before sitting back in his chair and sighing, _“finally.”_

It’ll be much later when she figures out that maybe their best friend hadn’t been as oblivious as she’d first thought, but for now, she’s on a mission.

“Where are we going?” Peter asks.

“You’ll see.”

She navigates the twists and turns of the school hallways, and Peter follows, until she’s pulling him to a sudden stop in the corridor just outside the physics labs. Luckily, the hallway is empty – devoid of any human witnesses she may later need to bribe for their silence.

Peter looks around him and back at her adorably confused.

“Um, MJ, what –”

She points to the door beside her, watching as he reads over the lettering on it, still uncomprehending.

“Um . . . ?”

She reaches for the handle and opens the door. “Get in.”

His eyes bug out of his head – and it’s an expression she’s getting more than used to.

She sighs and steps inside, pulling him in alongside her.

Once she closes the door, it goes completely dark. Apart from a little light filtering in through the gap at the bottom of the door, she can’t see all that much. There’s also not a lot of room to move in the nine-square-feet box of a storage room.

“What are we doing in here?” the nerd whispers.

“Well, seeing as how we can’t seem to have an actual conversation unless it’s pitch-black, and we’re stuck together, I thought the janitor’s closet is the easier option than, you know, orchestrating a kidnapping.”

He breathes out, and she can feel him only a few centimetres away, brushing against her with every breath. The hand that still holds hers is warm, and it seems neither one of them is keen to let go.

And that’s totally fine by her.

“So,” she starts, “we never finished our little game of ‘Truth and Truth’.”

He says nothing.

“I think it was my turn.”

She feels his fingers clench around hers, as he asks on a swallow, “what’s the question?”

MJ takes a moment, before stepping closer and winding her arms around his neck.

She feels him stop breathing, can hear the air that gets caught in his lungs.

“Peter Parker,” she says, voice low, and they’re standing so close, the words ghost over his lips, “when exactly were you planning to take me out on a date?”

A beat.

And then:

_“Now?”_

And she can’t help it, she laughs. “Just checking we’re on the same page.”

“Are we?” And there’s a little self-doubt creeping into those words, and well? That just won’t do.

“God, you’re such a loser. Why do I like you?”

“You do? Like me?”

“Yeah, Peter. I like you. Maybe even more than like you. I thought that was painfully obvious.”

“Oh.”

“Not the response I was looking for.”

“No, no!” he says then, surging forwards, and she feels his forehead pressing into hers. “I like you, too, MJ. Really, really, _really like you.”_

“Well, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“I wasn’t kidding about the date,” he says then.

And as tempting as it is to run off right now, she can think of a better use of their time.

“Points for enthusiasm,” she says, and MJ hopes he gets just exactly what she means as she continues, “but I think maybe we should take advantage of the dark and the low risk of interruptions while we can.”

He does, if the breathless laughter leaving his lips, hot against her skin, is anything to go by.

“You know,” he starts, and there’s a quiet confidence in his voice. It’s new, and it has her pulse thrumming under her skin, as she waits for him to finish _._ _“I think they call this game something else . . .”_

_“Yeah? And what’s that?”_

He says nothing.

Just presses a smile against her lips, and _yep_ , she thinks.

_Good answer._

 

 

**End.**

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this story is at an end. The response to this fic has been surprising and absolutely wonderful, and a massive thank you to everyone who read, left kudos, comments, sweet messages on my tumblr, along the way. And if you've been through this story with me from the beginning, an extra special thank you to you - you guys rock. I hope you enjoyed this last chapter. If you did, as always, please let me know! Cheers x

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, as always, are greatly appreciated. Thanks for reading :-)


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